The sun was high in the sky after it felt
silently in itself that the light it had brimmed out, till the current phase of
the day, suffice to dry the wet, probably watered and muddy, land—streets—
which were soaked by the last night rain that poured outrageously and almost
non-stoppedly. Luckily, for some, as they might have reasoned to themselves,
there were sunlight, for this Sunday, to dry out—or, dehydrate—their washed and
draped cloth. This self-imposed reason propelled them to get up from their bed,
leaving behind the laziness inside their body that weaken their mind, to collect
their cloth which had been worn, and stained with sweat and smells, throughout
their weekdays and bring them, for another week, to laundry—a task which some
eased with a clothing-washing machine and which some others had to complete
using their mere hands and wooden-covered brush—and with, specifically for some
others, thin plastic gloves.
The reason, despite its logicality, didn’t
make it ways into Visoth’s head whose body and mind were still peacefully
resting, in his messy bedroom, on his dust-filled bed where, atop, a few Sandra
Brown’s novels—The Crush, Smoke Screen, Fat Tuesday—were flaunting tirelessly
for a gentle clutch and an ardent read. Above-naked as the reeking striped
blanket had been rolled away to a corner of the bed, Visoth, who was as
frivolous as other aimless grown-ups, was still harboring a cute peaceful
slumber till this sun-high-on-the-sky time on a Sunday—a kind of slumber which
most teenager-turn-adults, like Visoth, would enjoyed and be proud of.
A peaceful sleep like such, in many cases,
would mean a wise remedy for recharging the energy that had been—and was—depleting
during and throughout the weekdays on study, works, and, for some, additionally
on love and dates. In a proportional rare case, it denoted that a gratifying
dream was there in the sleep that left those teenager-turn- adults or
already-adults hanging onto sleeping. Some others, to mention a bit more, might
even be having a series of wet dreams and, funnily ashamed as it may sound,
dropping their saliva on the coverage of the bed.
Yet, Visoth might have a different story
to tell. Maybe, this so-prolonged-till this-late-on-Sunday weekend sleep, for
at least this weekend, would mean a different thing. Maybe, he was lazy—too—to
the bone and soul and was aware that there were enough cloth for work and
study—not for love and dates— and pocket money for expense for one more week.
Or, maybe, he had figured out, through his past experiences, that there
wouldn’t be so much—measly money—he could make going out motor-taxing on such day
after the rain had poured, a lot and like attacking wolves, the previous night.
Or, maybe, he was sick, to his heart, by
the effects of the raindrops from last night when he had to rushed home from
school—on his Honda Dreams 2008 half-old-half-new bike which his mum gifted him
when he made his ways to the city to seek a new future, form his so-called
precious province of good people and calm environment of living and
farming—after all the thoughts he made, one of which was to wait until the
merciless rain would stop—which apparently, last night, didn’t flashed a
chance.
There were enough for the “maybes”. Actually,
Visoth were awake—widely— since the dawn, the time when, after a night of
downpour like such, there were sound of frogs chirping and other insects screeching—crying,
in Visoth’s native language. Yet he, now weak from the surface of his flesh
that furthered on to suppressed the core of bone, just didn’t find enough
pushing reason and striking belief to get himself up, actually, from a self-imposed
feeling that he was just, of all the chances in life so far, a loser. And, for
last night, when it was raining profusely, a loser under the rain! For all the
time awake, him mind and thoughts went on a journey which turned out to be
badly crooked.
He felt like shit while worries kept
flowing into his small head that seemed, for now, housing many thoughts, some
of which unnecessary and bad separately for his mind and collectively for his
whole life. In spite of such, he couldn’t help fight back; he couldn’t practice
the philosophies he learned from a local seminar at his school where this
motivational speaker, who was also a famed businessman nationwide, was speaking
to inspire students like him—Visoth—to struggle hard with concrete goals in
life. He was worrying if he could just hit the average score from the test he
was doing the last night in class, a midterm test on a subject which he barely
had time reviewing for—Visoth left two questions which accounted for 15 marks
and an opinion-based writing task amounting to 20 marks alone unanswered. He
had been blaming himself for all the procrastination he had put. “Why are you
so dumb, man?” Fretting over another fact that he would not make any good
future after all the efforts his family had helped him to push through for his
life, he was still uncertain if the career that he was to pamper himself in
would make enough money to take care of his aging mother and his future wife
who, by now, hadn’t come out to cast her appearance to Visoth. Another space in
his head was plastered with a stream of frustrations that people around him
would be disappointed and shockingly ewwing
when they found out that he had been motor-taxiing for some pocket money. That’s
what made so worried. The aimless guy felt and was convinced to himself that
he, kind of, had and picked up so many ideas and skills—though so mediocre—but
haven’t settled for a job that could gave him back experiences and some monthly
financials that he could use to cover his expense. For all the records, he was
rejected, the two most-heard reasons of which were: 1) you’re still a
university student and we need an experienced one and 2) […] you, sort of,
don’t suit the requirement notwithstanding your great potentials. At this
situation, to take its advantages, worry and negative thoughts were enjoying
themselves bombarding Visoth’s head. Ergo, literally, his brain didn’t work
well and, from naked eyes, one was certain to say, Visoth was both hopeless and
helpless—in his life and for his life.
But, not every nook and cranny in his head
were for now lacking of positive thoughts. There, in fact, was this one
reiterating voice, though soft and midget-y, saying: It’s a new day here; wake
up and make things—good things—happen!
At as if a miracle veered in, Visoth
started to hear that sound. He headed in nearer and listen to it. It’s-a-new-ddddd! It started and then
stopped. Then, the sound went silent, from after so. And from times to times,
it kept being so. Each times it tried to cautioned Visoth mind, it managed to
reach a word longer than the previous time, and luckily, with difficulties,
finally, Visoth put the words he was pitched together and managed to hear the
full sentence, which read, exactly so: IT’S A NEW DAY HERE; WAKE UP AND MAKE
THINGS—GOOD THINGS—HAPPEN!
Hearing that voice stroke Visoth hard,
and, long enough, for the word to surge compatibly into the directional vibe in
his head, Visoth rose from his bed, knowing from and in his head he needed to
go on, with a purpose, each day despite all the hardships that were thrust into
his life. And, Visoth had a lot to finish that remaining day.
IT’S A NEW DAY HERE; WAKE UP AND MAKE
THINGS—GOOD THINGS—HAPPEN!
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