Story of Mystery 2
Spirit of Spirit in Kala Petang

The room was dark. Cowering in it a young man. Gibran. Even though it was late afternoon, Gibran was still engrossed in his delusion, no matter he let it be just wrapped in cloth that was getting worn out, his imagination was still left to wander everywhere.

The real world sometimes made the young man dissolve in confusion. Confusion about how to behave. How not, humans around him sometimes always adjust behavior according to their will. So for a Gibran who always tries to be nice, all the practices he does are in vain, because no matter how he behaves, there will certainly be comments that appear to criticize his efforts.

He's squirming the body, aching it he feels. The black ceiling of the room is like an infinite imaginary media. Reluctance to return to the harsh realities he once tasted. In the past, Gibran was a worker who worked according to his duties, fostering good relations with fellow colleagues and leaders. Even because of the discipline and responsibility that he is committed to, almost always when there is an additional task the leader assigns him, because he believes he can certainly finish well.

But who was the pain, among his comrades who looked sweet face turned out to be rotten hearted, stabbing from behind. They deteriorate themselves, mess up their duties, to make their image collapse in the eyes of the leader. Huh! Given all that, it did not feel Gibran clenched his hands. It felt like he wanted to avenge everything with a deadly rampage.

Gibran. No, that's not his character. He was used to compassion, relented and respect for others, so yes, his fragile soul let all the pain, disappointment and unhappiness he felt alone. No need to hold a grudge.

The real world is cruel. The real world is full of hypocrisy. The real world is a world that he cannot control. That is why he likes solitude as it is today. Living the imaginary world. The world he created in wishful thinking, and all the flow of events he could change according to his will.

Gibran smiled to himself.

Know it! Know it! Fried Banana! Bakwan! The fry!

Gibran's forehead shriveled, hearing the sound he only realized that he had not tasted fried food for a long time. Lazily he got up and came out.

The fry!

The voice of Gibran's call made the seller stop, looking at the young man. The seller is a ten year old boy. With simple clothes, it even looks like some patches on his clothes. For a moment the young man looked at the fried seller. Ah, pity this child, still so young must bother selling fried foods. Of course to meet the needs of his family.

"Buy fried mister?" ask the child while smiling.

Gibran.

"How many sir?" ask the child back.

The young man poured twenty thousand dollars into the child.

"Mixed or choose which one, sir?"

"Mixed." replied Gibran.

Gibran was silent, something was troubling his mind.

"Master? It's the fry."

The words of the child spread his daydream. Throw that plastic bag.

"Thank you sir." said the boy, and turned the body.

"Eh, wait." stop Gibran.

The boy paused his steps. "What's up, sir?"

Gibran's mouth locked for a moment, but then he asked, "Are you happy with what you're doing?"

The child nodded. "Sure Mr."

"What's your excuse?"

The child seemed a little confused, "Because Master, because this is the practice I have to live."

Gibran listened to the boy's answer. The fry seller saw the young man just turned around, leaving Gibran dissolved in his mind.

Some time later Gibran's eyes seemed to shine a single excitement of life. He nodded with a smile of happiness. Ah yes, why should he bother with all that he is going through? Is this not His destiny, and each of us has a different role and way of life? Live mindfully, and surely there will be no disappointment to hit the heart.

He was satisfied with the conclusion that had just crossed his mind. Gibran turned around, his steps no longer weak, passionately meaningless to the world.

On the side of the road, the fry seller's son looked at the last place he sold the fried food earlier. Who's the young man who just bought the fry? And why did he go in that direction? Isn't it inside that... Even though the atmosphere is late at night, the eyes of the child who is aware can still read the big writing on the edge of the fence opposite it.. Public Funeral Venues....

So-called.