Maung Ko Ko (Amarapura) - Running with the rain, am I a gypsy?

[1]

I am not a radio,

I am not a computer.

I am not the internet.

I am not a satellite-connected television.

The world.. right?

How can I know the whole world so thoroughly? I am not a machine that absorbs all information, nor am I a newspaper.

Oh... really...

The world I live in is a small place.

A small dog lives in a large yard, but the owner locks the door to the yard.

The little dog that ran around with the Moe people didn't know how to open the lock, nor did he try to steal the key.

The poor dog never thought of stealing the key to open the door that had blocked it.

I'm just thinking.

I think about the dates of my past lives.

What do I have to do with that puppy?

Too bad it's not just a puppy..

A boy like me can't catch a single star falling from the sky, nor can I come up with new ideas.

Poor little idiot. That boy is me.

I live in a small town.

The city was filled with the sound of looms and looms.

A city that lifts the sky with its roar. The deafening roar of the machines lifts the sky above the city. So said a writer.

My town was discovered by another soldier while hunting wild boar. It became our town because of the other soldier.

If it weren't for the great hero Kyan Sitthi, would my town have existed? If Kyan Sitthi himself had been a gypsy, would he have discovered my town if he had thought in advance that it would become such a noisy city with so many machines?

My city produces about 20,000 disposable diapers per day.

They say that. I don't know the exact number. All I know is that the machines are making noise.

And how many of his own clothes he produces, what does that have to do with me?

Because I only wear jeans.

I don't like the cloths made in my town, and I don't like the silk and cotton woven cloths made in Shwebo Seik Khun and Amarapura.

(A little laugh.)

Is that all?

Not yet.

I don't like the blankets from Malaysia either.

I don't like the cloths from India either.

I like jeans from the USA.

In my small world, there are countless things I don't like. Running around with the raincoats, you know?

I don't like milk.

I don't like Michael Jackson.

I don't like Soe Aung.

I don't like the songs on the radio. Do you know the sour milk? I don't like the coconut flakes scattered on the surface of the glass of sour milk.

I don't like the sweet powders at J-Donut.

I don't like pork chops.

I don't like the white Sony Super Sedan. It's too flashy.

I don't like Madonna. She's dirty. I hate her flirtatious behavior. | I don't like my father's cigars. They smell so bad. .

I don't like my father's management books.

Books are too much for my fingers.

I don't like my dad's Black Label whiskey either.

Because it's sweet.

My city is a very busy place. They work so hard that it's boring. The rich work like the workers.

My father also pulled the engine. He also directed the workers. He was also buried between the big piles of cotton and the big piles of fabric. He used to run around in a Sony pickup truck, but he also moved around in a Grande Mach 2.

As I watched my father busy himself across a continent, my gut felt sick.

When I feel like I'm getting an itch in my gut, I often go to a tea shop on the street.

I was enjoying a cup of sweet tea, a cigarette, and some music. I saw my father drive down the street in his pickup truck, saying "woof".

Even as I was running around with the Moe family, going out on my own, enjoying a cup of tea, a cigarette, and music, the sound of the Sony pickup truck, “woo,” made my stomach churn.

In the evening, my father went to the golf course. I used to watch him. I didn't hit the ball right away, but instead, I looked at the tight lines on my father's face as he swung the big golf club. I felt sorry for him. I felt sorry for him.

Dad was still aiming for the world with a single shot of his golf club and golf ball.

Wow... I've typed it.

Never entered the pit.

Missed.

Oh..

I guess it's just a matter of my father's grandiose ambitions going wrong like this. (At that moment, I burst out laughing, watching my father's face contort.)

Laughing out loud at the mistakes of adults is even more delicious than eating chocolate cake. I stopped laughing so hard that I couldn't stop laughing, and I wanted to see how much my father's face had become distorted, so I looked back.

Am I a gypsy?

Dad frowned at me, and if he were a little more serious, I would melt. Dad frowned at me for who knows how long. I just sat there, still.

One day, I was sitting next to my father in his Sony pickup truck, driving to a town just a few miles from my hometown.

"Son, if you're bored, come with me," said the father.

"Come on, Dad."

I shouted, opening the front door of the car with a loud bang, then slamming it shut. The sound of the door closing was not as soft as the Limitade and Grande Macto, because it was a Sony pickup truck.

In our town, the most common vehicles are the Sony pickup trucks, high-tops, and super-roofs. They also have factory-made fabrics on the back, so it's good to have them and a few other things.

Dad drove the car fast.

I'm also a little windy. In the car. I'm bending my knees.

How much fun would it be to ride with your dad in a car that your dad drives?

I was a little windy. In the car. Knee-deep. We had passed a large private brewery. We had left a pagoda or two behind. The passengers waiting for the bus didn't dare to stop our little Sony pickup. They stared at the tail of our car as it sped past them. The world is like that.

How fun it was to leave people on the side of the road in a small car.

My father is a really good driver. We overtook passenger cars and private cars one by one.

The city I live in is a mass -production city, a city with machines, and people work hard. The money they earn from working is not enough to buy food or a comfortable place to live.

Hello ••

I have seen the welcome. The elders of my town have come to this town and become wealthy.

I know. But what kind of material and living things do adults my father's age have?

I feel like I'm playing a guitar ...

It 's a feeling to sit on a bench by the side of the road, singing a song over and over with a guitar, while seeing the silvery moon through the snow at midnight...

It was also a feeling for me to steal my father's little Sony pickup truck at night without him knowing and drive it wildly on the highway.

It's also a feeling for me to have a cup of tea and a puff of a cigarette at a tea shop.

My father parked his car in front of a restaurant. It wasn't a very big restaurant. It was small. In front of the restaurant, I saw small, green, red, and blue flowers and plants.

Red, blue, and purple refer to small flowers.

The flowers are red and blue... so cute and beautiful.

My father and I entered the shop. The shop workers seemed to know my father. They greeted us warmly.

Well, they're not just for dad. It's their job to greet everyone who comes into their shop with such warmth.

But they seemed to be familiar with my father. But my father, as usual, was a bit stubborn.