Ten Ten Taren Ten Ten Ten

You are my ice cream man.

And no, not the kind I know you’re all thinking about,
but genuine ice cream. The kind that makes kids run wild after an ice cream seller on a September afternoon, screaming, “Uncle, uncle! Give me one!”

Every time I meet you, my inner bells launch a series of off-tune jingles, which sound a lot like holidays and naps on the beach. Your sparkling eyes remind me too much of a shining droplet of juicy goodness reflected off of sunlight. And when we talk, I feel like you’re the coconut to my ka-rem, the mold to my orange soda ice cream. The irony is, with you, I am the one who melts.


But you are also not my ice cream man.

Because I remember living in a second floor of a run down building. Cheap white paints, narrow stairs and a busy street. We never got much money to go around between the four of us, but I always managed to save some for you.

Then it was time to wait.

And wait.

And wait. Until that familiar jingles come around the corner. I’d scream at the top of my lungs, from the bottom of my heart. Stop. Stop. Notice me. I want you. Stop.

But he just went on his merry way, about to make other kids happy no doubt. That’s how you’re not my ice cream man, because I shouted, he didn’t hear;

you heard and you still went on your way.



White Pailin Rose

“I can’t believe it took us this long to finally make the trip,” said Khun Neary, pulling Chet from his musing of the lone semi-ruined cottage in the middle of a green field.
“Oh, yes, considering how much our friends tease us,” he replied, head shaking slightly thinking about the hundreds of times they’ve heard the phrase, “Chao Chet and Khun Neary” by literally everyone who knew their names, even by that quirky colleague at work upon receiving their wedding invitation a week ago.
In a way, it seemed like they had been made for each other.

God was a cruel playwright. Chet learned this when his father died of a needless traffic accident twelve years ago. He supposed from then on, he might have subconsciously setting himself up to meet his soul mate, his Khun Neary.
She would be the woman of all his dreams- pretty, witty and bold. The young Chet grew up waiting for his lead actress, the goddess to complete his shrine. His life would not start, Chet felt, not unless he’d found his other half.
And when a charming-looking new colleague introduced herself as Khun Neary, Chet knew at once. This was her. This sweet looking woman with black flowing hair and a hint of permanent smirk on her face who spoke with a tilted Siem Reap accent was literally the Khun Neary to his Chao Chet.

Chet looked back at his newly-made wife, bathing under the warm September morning sunshine which was sipping stealthily into the tiny car they’d rent for their trip to Pailin. Arrays of light made her rosy cheek a shade darker, like a rose ready to bloom. In a way, she had always looked like a rose to him, full of thorns, but beautiful, oh so beautiful, to behold.
To call her his was probably what it felt like to be the master of a garden full of perfect roses- proud and content.
Struck by a thought, Chet rummaged through his backpack to find his forgotten treasure, a single white rose which he’d manage to purchase this morning without Khun’s knowing. His wife’s brown sultry eyes lit up with surprise. Hand grasping for the flower, she gave him a quick peck on the lips- a noiseless thank you to a noiseless offering.
They did not need further acknowledgement; both knew the other was content.

With Khun laying her petite head on his shoulder, Chet steadily fell into an easy nap to the rhythm of his wife’s cute little snores, and the silent hum of the car’s engine. If this was what being in love felt like, he could easily do it every single day for the rest of his life.

The couple were woken up by the soft persistent call of the driver. Of course, they’d just got a flat tire, in the middle of lunch time, no less.
“I’m so sorry, sir,” apologized the driver, sweat running down his cleft lips. “I’ll fix it as soon as possible.”

Grumpily, Chet nodded. They both decided to get out of the small rented taxi to sit under the shade of a huge umbrella tree near the road. The heat was prickling on Chet’s back, and he felt like despite the enormous amount of gel in it, his hair would shoot up like bed springs any minute now. As if she’d read his thoughts, Khun smoothed his sweating head in a familiar gesture, perfected by regularly practices. She’d always liked it sleek- simple and sleek. Controllable, predictable, not like his originally curled black locks, wild and full of literally surprising twists.

This was not supposed to be how it should go. They were supposed to have a smooth ride to Pailin, the province where their respective fictional characters had fallen in love and fall in love all over again. This taxi was not supposed to stupidly die in the middle of everything!

“We should get something to eat,” urged Khun, peeking from under the big pink scarf he’d given her on their first month-versary. To this day, nearly 6 months later, Chet still felt that moving sensation in his breast every time he saw the batting coal-black eyelashes of his wife’s, or the way she scrunched up her eyebrows every time she was troubled.
Again, Chet was shot with a pang of ecstasy. This wonderfully beautiful woman. She’s all his. She’s all his.
They had the rest of their lives to be happy.

“We were supposed to stop at the provincial town for lunch. Now, what?” Khun asked again, now with an unmistakable tint of frustration laced in her smooth voice.
If only you knew how to cook, then we’d not be sitting here and complaining about food, thought Chet. Though he knew better than to say it out loud. It shouldn’t have bothered him, her not knowing how to cook, but it was hard to ignore the nagging disapproval of your heart when your stomach was also in the chorus.

“Did you know that white roses are considered to be the opposite of red roses even though they are both roses?” Chet asked, looking at the snow white rose Khun kept in her pale, veined palm.
“You know I love your literary musings, but I’m really not in the mood for story times right now.” But Chet could not stop. He had to go on; he had to. He felt like he was being chased by an invisible monster close behind his heels. His wife had always been fond of his idle musings, and now he was afraid, incredibly afraid that if he stopped now, the monster would catch up.
Must go on. Must go on.

“Red roses symbolize love whereas white roses symbolize… death.”
Khun glanced at him and steadily held her gaze for a good solid minute. Her face went from pure wide-eyed surprise, to puzzled, then to surprise again. For some reason, Chet knew. He knew she’d also seen the monster. The monster which was chasing them both.

Tap, tap tap.

Hundreds of droplets of rain suddenly fell from the seemingly clear sky. Chet and Khun hurriedly scurried back into their small grey taxi. Panting, Chet tried to desperately combed back his unruly curly hair back into its place. It was no use, the angry locks shot up from the roots of his head like bamboo sticks, coiling like springs in every direction imaginable.
He glanced up, half astonished, half ashamed to see mascara-stained eyes looking back at him. Underneath the eyes, powder and blush all blended in and rushed away from Khun’s cheeks like a city under flood.

They both laughed.
The monster had caught on.

The Dancer and the Spectator

It’s day 3 of the lookout now.

Seems like she’s doing fine. The girl actually smiled today- the first one I’ve seen since I was assigned to her.

It came quite unexpectedly, like a sudden gush of cooling wind during a hot summer’s day. However, not unlike a hot summer’s day, the wind succeeding it still continues to be hot, warm, and somehow oppressing.

She’s hunching over her desk right now, typing away as if her life depends on it; maybe in a way, it does. The little arrow on top of her head is still pointing south, a grim reminder of my duty once the time comes.

If you’d ask me, I’d say this job was not quite bad. It’s the equivalent of what you’d call a therapist, really.

Though instead of talking people into life, I talk them into death.

Tip, tap, tip, tap, the sound of her keyboard seem to magnify among the silence spell that was casted in the room. She has been writing profusely since dinner. Of course I can take a peek if I want to, but that would be too rude, even for me. Mind you, though without a body, my manners are still intact.

She is concentrating so hard that veins looked like they are going to pop out of her pale, fragile neck in any second now. I hope whatever she is writing is enough to channel her soul back to earth.
The arrow is going down in an alarming rate these past few days, and even with hours hunching over her computer, it’s barely lifted.

Left with too much free time on my hand, I start to glance around her room again. It is helpful to have your human’s background information at hand when the time comes. There is a beautiful art corner with a well-used wooden easel, and dusty art supplies, tucked away like an old well-loved toy once one’s grown up. It is pretty clear this corner was once her favorite part of the room. Once before. Before the illness came.

The little alarm clock on her study desk chimes, and her whole body jolts. It is interesting to see how a human can be so absorbed in an activity that they seem to have lost contact with time and space. I wish there were more moments like these- when people can be lifted from their worldly existence, even if just for a little while. Then maybe there wouldn’t be too many hopeless and lonely people. Then maybe I wouldn’t have to be here.

The rustling of covers bring me back to earth, and I realize she just tucked herself in. Apparently, she’s been setting sleep times.

10 sharp, a few sleeping pills and off to bed.

Really, it’s plain that she’s been trying. Trying to live out a normal existence. For god’s sake, the girl is regulating her sleep time with an alarm clock and sleeping pills. It is scary how one can acquire sleeping pills so easily in this country. My last human couldn’t get a hold of any pills unless there was an official prescription. I guess the law makers’ concern is well-founded after all as I eye the pill bottle suspiciously. It is an aid for now, but when will it turn into a foe?

Fifteen minutes in and she’s sleeping as soundly as a baby. I sit at the window ledge, looking out to the beautiful summer night from her first floor bedroom. There’s a streetlight a little left the balcony. Judging by the amount of toys and childish bits and bobs scattering around her bookshelf, she must have been living in this room for quite long, or maybe for her entire life even. It must have been a pretty sight, this window view at night for a kid with a mind like hers. The clash between the cold night and glowing, yellow lamplight must have once delighted her artistic heart.

Maybe she sat on this very same window ledge, thinking about her dreams and future.

I bet whatever her tiny mind could imagine did not involve being on suicide watch by a ghost at the age of 18.

Maybe the view was beautiful to her once, but now, all she wants to do is to drawn out the night and sleep.

Day 4 is pretty much the same.

You know, the thing about suicidal people is that their lives leading up to the critical moment are almost never out of the ordinary. You can pretty much see them living and think everything is going quite fine. They wake up, eat their meals, and go off to work or school. They pay their taxes, and say their thank you’s.

Really, if I hadn’t known any better, I’d have thought she was fine. The way she greets the homeless man at St. 51 every day on her way to school, or the way her head bobs gracefully to the music she always listens to during break. Really, she seems like a pretty normal girl until the mood strikes, and oh boy, do they strike often.

It is now day 6. She’s doing so fine that I think I will have to leave her be in a few days. That is… until her mom gives her yet another gift- a wooden clock this time. God, what is up with these people and their obsession with woods?

The round wooden clock with its hands going round and round and round seem to signify to her something larger than itself. She looks at the clock for a long moment, and her eyes shift to the nearby bed, and makeup stand, all made of black and red glistering wood. Contempt mixed with disgust are evident on her bunched up little face.

I know there are things, lots of things bothering her, or else I wouldn’t have to be here, but what exactly? Most of the cases I’ve encountered had an obvious cause- an unrequited love on a friend, abrupt financial ruins and debts, or the infamous heartbreak.

But this girl.

She’s not seeing anyone.

She’s not attracted to anyone.

And she’s living just fine, with money to spare to the homeless.

So what? What exactly is bothering her?

Gosh, I sometimes wish I could read minds. That would make the job way easier, but then again, nature has some pretty sick, twisted laws, and what can one do, but to learn and live with them?

If this keeps going, she will be able to see me soon. Without knowing why, I check my wings to make sure the feathers are in order. I hate being this self-conscious, or sprit-conscious, or whatever, but when your sole communication was with occasional humans you have to kill, you would also want to look presentable for the occasion.

Her laptop lays closed on her desk. It used to look like a wonderful silver-skinned animal with its own howl and rhythm when she typed it the nights before. Now, it resembles nothing but a dead rock, lifeless and bleak.

Instead of working on the laptop, her eyes stare fixedly at the collage of photos behind it. These people all look happy. There is this one photo with her in large goggles, and lab coat, grinning with only a few scattering teeth present. Then there are photos of her with people, most of whom I’ve never seen. They look happy in that moment, all smiling, posing for the camera, including her. As she is staring at the photos, her mood darkens. The arrow rapidly draws south.

What is happening exactly? Which one of these smiling flesh hurt her? Or did they all turned their backs on her?

“Who are you?” she suddenly asks out croakily. I am shocked, to say at least at the unexpected question.

So she can see me now after all.

“I said who are you?” she asks, slightly louder now. Maybe she is not just sad, but quite mad as well.

“Uhm… I’m your ghost guide.”

She looks skeptical, but the twitch at the right corner of her mouth gives away her curiosity.

“Are you going to kill me?” she asks. The level of calmness in her voice chilled me. The girl is staring at what she thinks is death, and her mind is as calm as the ocean.

“Uh… would you like me to?”

This question seems to have taken her by surprise. Maybe, she has been bracing for death, and is surprised at the chance to choose. After a long pause in which I continue twitching my right wing, and looking anywhere but at her, she finally utters, “Yes.”

You know, it would be so much easier to just kill her right then and there, but then again, that is not my job. You people get Grim Ripper all wrong. I’m the closest resemblance to The Grim and most of the time I just talk, awkwardly, I might add.

I turn to face her. Her brows are furrowed in concentration, and lips quivering. I can’t tell if they are chanting a prayer, or shaking out of fear.

“Why? If you don’t mind me asking?”

A hint of annoyance flashes across her face, and I instantly add, “You know, I have to ask these kinda questions before doing my job.”

“I just… I… This life I’m living…,” she pauses, seemingly lost for words, “it feels like death.”

Maybe sensing my confusion, or maybe she thinks I am just a figment of her imagination, she decides to continue, “This body,” she gestures to herself, “feels like it was borrowed. Every time I see myself in pictures, it feels like seeing a complete stranger who happens to look like my reflection.”

She has looked pass me now, eyes fixating on the streetlamp outside.

“You know, life is like a spectacular dance in which I, myself am a part of, but at the same time, I feel like I’m one of the spectators watching the scene from afar.”

I nod as if to confirm that I am still listening.

Silence fills the air; not even the occasional howls from the street below can break our oppressing spell of a moment.

She glances at the framed picture of her family on the desk, with her dad smiling. “Go on, darling,” he seems to be saying, “go on, kill yourself, my love.”

Tear has started to fall down, creating a wet trail across her hallow cheeks. It’s clear she’s not someone who likes to cry too often, and this tear seems to have been stored away, way past its expiration date.

Maybe knowing you will die in a minute makes it easier for you to let the tear flow, to let your guard down, to be true to yourself at last.

“So, just, just do it,” she continued, voice quivering as if uttering these words takes her a great deal of effort.


She opens her eyes. I haven’t even noticed she’s held them shut. This is not the face of a willing warrior, embracing her fate. It is one of a foolish victim, expecting a death sentence.

“What do you mean no?”

“No, as in you’re not ready,” I speak slowly and deliberately while shuffling my feet a little. “I’ve been watching you for a while, and I think you just hate the life you’re living. Seems like you don’t hate life in general.”

She rolls her eyes to the upper right corner, a sign that she’s pondering something. Her brows furrow, signifying great concentration.

This is it. This is my chance. This is the tact or break moment! “You know, it seems like you don’t really like the life you’ve been handed, but I know you have a life in your head, a life you would be proud to call your own.”

She looks at me, unseeingly for a second.

I look at her empty eyes for a few moments and thinking this is it. I am not able to save this one. Yet, she stays silent, solemn in her own head until as if alarmed, she whips around the room, trying to locate something out of sight.

Tentatively, she questions, “Are you still here?”

After scanning the room for a few times, it seems like she’s decided to give up. She’s probably thinking I am a figment of her overly stimulated imagination after all, and who can blame her?

The alarm goes off.

10 sharp.

But instead of taking her oval white pills as usual, she turns on her computer. As if grateful for the chance to live, the machine roars and roars under her fingers as she types words after words, sentences after sentences into the night. I sit at the window ledge, not wanting to disturb her work, not that I can anyway.

Humans have a fascinating mind. One moment. One moment is all it takes for some of them to decide to live or to die. One moment. One night is all it takes to point the arrow north, and with that thought in mind, I ready myself for departure.
It’s now 6 in the morning. She’s still fast asleep- the first time I’ve seen her asleep with no chemical other than what her body produces.

She looks almost peaceful now with dim sunlight shining on her pale face, and rose-bud lips producing soft little humming snores. Something is telling me that I will never get to see this girl again. That she will live out her natural life with all the strength her small frame can muster. Well, in that case, maybe, a note won’t hurt.

Good bye, #34 and live well.


អាវក្រហម និងកន្ត្រៃ

វប្បធម៌គឺប្រៀបបានខោអាវដែរ។ ទោះជាមនុស្សកើតនៅក្នុងប្រទេសណា ទឹកដីណា ក្នុងសម័យកាលណាមួយក្តី ក៏យើងសុទ្ធតែទទួលបានខោអាវម្នាក់មួយកំផ្លេ ស្រដៀងៗនឹងអ្នកជិតខាងយើងដែរ។

ដោយឡែកខោអាវរបស់ខ្ញុំ គឺជាអាវក្រណាត់ក្រហម ដៃខ្លី មានហោប៉ៅមួយពីមុខ ស៊កទឺនុយជាមួយនឹងខោកាគីពណ៌ត្នោតវែងត្រឹមជើងតែម្តង។ អាវមួយមានលេវប្រាំ រីឯខោមួយមានលេវមួយ និងខ្សែរូតមួយ។

ខ្ញុំក្រឡេកមើលអ្នកជិតខាងផ្ទះខ្ញុំ គាត់ក៏កំពុងពាក់អាវក្រហម និងខោពណ៌ត្នោតផងដែរ។ គាត់ញញឹមមកកាន់ខ្ញុំ។ ហើយខ្ញុំញញឹមទៅកាន់គាត់វិញ។ជីវិតដូចជាមានភាពងាយស្រួលដែរ ពេលដែលយើងទាំងអស់គ្នាពាក់អាវ និងខោដូចគ្នា។ វាហាក់ដូចជាអត្តសញ្ញាណរបស់ភូមិខ្ញុំអញ្ចឹង។

ថ្ងៃមួយ ខ្ញុំឃើញអាវពណ៌ស នៅក្នុងទូរទស្សន៍ប៉ុស្តិ៍របស់ភូមិមួយទៀត។ ខ្ញុំមិនដែលឃើញអាវណាមានពណ៌អញ្ចឹងនោះទេ។ ពីដំបូងខ្ញុំខឹង។ តើគេជានរណាគេ? ហ៊ានដេរអាវដែលមានពណ៌ខុសពីពណ៌ក្រហម? តែម្តាយខ្ញុំគាត់ប្រាប់ថា គេខាងភូមិគេ គេដាក់ពណ៌អ្វីក៏ស្រេចតែគេ។ យើងជាភូមិយើង យើងប្រើពណ៌ក្រហមទៅ។

នៅក្នុងសាលា គេបង្រៀនខ្ញុំថា ភូមិយើងពាក់អាវពណ៌ក្រហមក៏ដោយសារ យើងធ្លាប់ចេញសមរភូមិច្រើន ដូច្នេះ ពាក់អាវពណ៌ក្រហមស្រាប់ វាមិនងាយប្រឡាក់។ តែអីលូវ ភូមិយើងលែងមានចម្បាំងហើយ។ យើងរស់នៅស្រុកស្រួលទេតើ។ តើហេតុអ្វីយើងត្រូវពាក់ពណ៌ក្រហមទៀត?

ពេលមិត្តរួមថ្នាក់ម្នាក់សួរលោកគ្រូខ្ញុំ។ គាត់នៅស្ងាត់មួយភ្លែត ហើយនិយាយថា កុំសួរសំណួរគ្មានប្រយោជន៍ ហើយពាក់តាមដែលគេប្រាប់ទៅ។

អាវពណ៌សដែលខ្ញុំឃើញលើកមុនតែងតែនៅដក់ជាប់ក្នុងចិត្តខ្ញុំជានិច្ច។ គិតសព្វៗទៅ ពណ៌ស និងពណ៌ក្រហម ស្អាតម្នាក់ម៉្យាង។ ខ្ញុំគិតថា បើភូមិយើងលែងស្ថិតនៅក្នុងភ្នក់សង្គ្រាមដូចនេះហើយ យើងក៏លែងត្រូវការពណ៌ក្រហមទៀតដែរ។ ចុះម៉េចបានជាយើងមិនសាកកាត់អាវដែលមានពណ៌សលាយក្រហម? រូបភាពអាវឆ្នូតក្រហម លាយស មួយនេះតែងតែស្ថិតនៅក្នុងចិត្តខ្ញុំជានិច្ច នៅពេលដែលខ្ញុំពាក់អាវទៅរៀនរាល់ព្រឹក។ ហេតុអ្វីបានជាយើងនៅតែពាក់អាវក្រហមទៀត?

សំណួរទាំងនេះវិលវល់ ស្រោបលើចិត្តរបស់ខ្ញុំដូចសំបុកពីងពាង។ រឹតតែគិត ខ្ញុំរឹតតែមើលឃើញចំនុចខ្វះខាតរបស់ខោអាវដណ្តប់ប្រាណខ្ញុំមួយកំប្លេនេះ។ ហេតុអ្វីបានជាវាមានតែអាវដៃខ្លី? កាលពីជំនាន់មុន មេឃមិនសូវក្តៅទេ តែអាកាសធាតុប្រែប្រួលហើយ ហេតុអ្វីបានជាយើងមិនកាត់អាវដៃវែងដើម្បីបាំងពន្លឺថ្ងៃ?

ខ្ញុំក៏ចាប់ផ្តើមសង្កេតឃើញអាវរបស់លោកគ្រូខ្ញុំ។ នៅក្នុងវ័យ ៤០ ឆ្នាំជាមួយនឹងក្បាលពោះដ៏អន្ធេលមួយ អាវរបស់គាត់ហាក់ដូចត្រូវបានគេសប់ខ្យល់បំប៉ោងបម្រុងបំផ្ទុះចោលអញ្ចឹង។ លេវនីមួយៗកំពុងទទួលសម្ពាធយ៉ាងខ្លាំង។ ពេលខ្លះខ្ញុំខ្លាចតែលេវនោះផ្ទុះ ហោះបុកថ្ងាសកូនសិស្សក្នុងថ្នាក់ណាស់។

តែអីលូវខ្ញុំក៏ចាប់ផ្តើមឆ្ងល់ថា ហេតុអ្វីបានជាគាត់មិនកាត់អាវថ្មីមួយ? អាវដែលមានទំហំធំជាងនេះ? អាវដែលអាចសម្របតាមក្បាលពោះគាត់ ហើយទុកកន្លែងឲ្យទ្រូងគាត់ដកដង្ហើម?

លោកគ្រូបង្រៀនយើងថា ជីដូនជីតាយើងជាអ្នកបង្កើតម៉ូដខោអាវនេះឡើង ដូច្នេះយើងត្រូវស្រឡាញ់ និងថែរក្សាវា។ ប្រាកដណាស់ ខ្ញុំស្រឡាញ់ខោអាវមួយឈុតនេះ។ តែពេលដែលខ្ញុំក្រឡេកឃើញអាវតឹងស្ទើរប្រេះរបស់លោកគ្រូ ឬពេលខ្ញុំឃើញប្អូនប្រុសរបស់ខ្ញុំដើរក្រោមកម្តៅម៉ោង ១២ ថ្ងៃដោយមិនមានរបាំង ខ្ញុំខាំមាត់អត់ទ្រាំនឹងមិនសួរខ្លួនឯងមិនបាន។ តើហេតុអ្វីយើងមិនអាចបន្ថែមម៉ូដលើខោអាវយើងបាន?

នៅក្នុងបណ្តាល័យសាលា ខ្ញុំខំស្រាវជ្រាវរកមើលប្រវត្តិសាស្ត្រនៃខោអាវ។ តើនរណាជាអ្នកបង្កើតវាឲ្យពិតប្រាកដ? សៀវភៅបានប្រាប់ខ្ញុំថា តាមពិតពីដំបូងដូនតាយើងពាក់អាវយឺតនោះទេ។ តែដោយសារពួកគាត់ឃើញថា អាវក្រណាត់នៅភូមិខាងជើងផ្តល់ការការពារច្រើនជាងអាវយឺត ហើយមានសភាពស្អាតជាង គាត់ក៏សម្រេចចិត្តច្នៃម៉ូដដោយប្រើប្រាស់ក្រណាត់វិញ។

ខ្ញុំជឿថា ខោត្នោតអាវក្រហមមួយកំផ្លេនេះ ពេលដែលដូនតាយើងកាត់វាដំបូង ពួកគាត់ក៏មិនសូវចេះដែរ។ ប្រហែលជាពួកគាត់មិនសូវចេះប្រើកន្ត្រៃ ឬម្ជុលផង។ ខ្ញុំគិតថា អាវប៉ុន្មានសម្រាប់ដំបូង មិនអាចយកជាការបាននោះទេ។ ពួកគាត់ប្រាកដជាបានដេរខុសថ្នេរ ខុសលេវ និងខុសទំហំមិនខាន។ តែពួកគាត់មិនរួញរានោះទេ។ ពួកគាត់ប្រាកដជាបានជូតញើសដោយប្រើអាវយឺតរបស់ខ្លួន។ ពួកគាត់ប្រាកដជាមានជំនឿមួយថា អ្វីដែលពួកគាត់កំពុងដេរនេះ ជាអាវម៉ូដថ្មីដែលអាចការពារខ្លួនពួកគាត់ពីកម្តៅថ្ងៃបានល្អជាងមុន។ ក្រោយពីនេះ ពួកគាត់នឹងរស់នៅស្រួលជាងមុន ហើយអ្នកភូមិក៏រស់ស្រួលជាងមុនបន្តិចដែរ។ពេលគាត់មានកូន គាត់ដេរខោអាវដដែលឲ្យកូនគាត់ ដោយគាត់គិតថា វានឹងអាចការពារកូនគាត់ ដូចដែលវាការពារគាត់អញ្ចឹង។

គួរឲ្យចៃដន្យអី វាលែងអាចការពារកូនគាត់ទៀតហើយ។បើសិនជារាងកាយមនុស្សមិនចេះផ្លាស់ប្តូរ មេឃមិនចេះភ្លៀង រន្ទះមិនចេះបាញ់ និងខ្យល់មិនចេះបក់ ម៉្លោះយើងមិនត្រូវការផ្លាស់ប្តូរ តម្រឹមខោអាវយើងដើម្បីស្របទៅនឹងអាកាសធាតុ និងខ្លួនយើងឡើយ។

តែការពិត សាច់ឈាមមនុស្សផ្លាស់ប្តូរ មានសភាពខុសៗគ្នា។ ខោអាវដែលសង្គមកាត់ឲ្យនោះ ទោះជាពាក់ចុះមែន តែពេលខ្លះវាសង្កៀរ វារមាស់ ដៃអាវហាក់ដូចវែងជាងដៃយើង។ ពេលខ្លះទៀត ដោយសារអាកាសធាតុបានប្រែប្រួល អាវដៃខ្លីដែលត្រូវបានគេដេរឡើងដោយស្រស់ស្អាតនេះ មិនអាចគ្របខ្លួនរបស់យើង ពង្វាងក្តីត្រជាក់កុំឲ្យបៀតកាយនោះឡើយ។

ពេលខ្លះទៀត វាមិនមែនដោយសារអាវពាក់មិនចុះ ឬមិនអាចទប់កម្តៅនោះទេ។ ពេលខ្លះ យើងមិនចូលចិត្តពណ៌នៃខោយើង។ វាពាក់បានល្អ រឹបខ្លួនល្មម ហើយសាច់ក្រណាត់ក្រាស់ល្មម សម្រាប់រដូវវស្សា។ តែ សាមីខ្លួនយើងមិនចូលចិត្តពណ៌ មិនចូលចិត្តម៉ូតធម្មតាគ្មានលម្អរ។ យើងមិនចូលចិត្តអារម្មណ៍ ពេលដែលយើងយកដៃទៅស្ទាបសាច់ខោរបស់យើង។

ពេលខ្លះខ្ញុំជឿថា ឲ្យតែខ្ញុំខិតខំដាក់កាយ ច្នៃម៉ូតថ្មី យើងនឹងអាចបង្កើតខោអាវមួយកំប្លេ ដែលមានម៉ូតទាក់ភ្នែកជាងនេះ។ ជីដូនជីតាខ្ញុំគឺជាមនុស្ស។ ពួកគាត់មានម៉ូដមួយក្នុងចិត្ត ហើយពួកគាត់ដេរ។ ខ្ញុំក៏ជាមនុស្ស។ ខ្ញុំក៏មានម៉ូដមួយក្នុងចិត្ត។ ហើយខ្ញុំនឹងដេរ។ដេរ អាវដែលមានសាច់ក្រណាត់ទន់ស្រួលប្រើជាងនេះ ដែលមានដៃវែង អាចបាំងថ្ងៃបាន ដែលមានពណ៌ស ជាពណ៌ដែលខ្ញុំចូលចិត្ត។ តែវាជាអាវដែលសង្គមហាក់ដូចមិនបេតី។

ខ្ញុំក៏ចាប់ស្រវ៉ារកកន្ត្រៃ ប្រម៉ូលលេវ និងរកសសៃអំបោះ។

ខ្ញុំដើររកទិញឈៀក ស្រវ៉ាវាស់ ស្រវ៉ាកាត់ ទោះដៃមិនស្ទាត់ ចំនេះមិនសព្វក៏ដោយ។


មិនចេះអស់តិចថ្ងៃទេ ទម្រាំខ្ញុំខំកាត់បានជាអាវដែលត្រូវខ្លួនខ្ញុំ។

ខ្ញុំគិតពាក់អាវនេះទៅសាលា។ ម៉ែគាត់រវល់សរសេរសៀវភៅ ដែលជាសំណាងខ្ញុំដែរ។

ទៅតាមផ្លូវ ខ្ញុំទម្លាក់ដៃអាវចុះ។ ស្បែកដែលធ្លាប់តែគ្រោតគ្រើម មានសភាពដូចភ្លើងឆាបរបស់ខ្ញុំ មានអារម្មណ៍ត្រជាក់ល្ហើយ។ ខ្ញុំឆ្ងល់នឹងខ្លួនឯងដែរ ហេតុអ្វីមិនគិតកាត់ដៃអាវវែងតាំងពីយូរ?

ពេលទៅដល់សាលា មិត្តរួមថ្នាក់របស់ខ្ញុំនាំគ្នាអើតកចំហរមាត់ តាមសម្លឹងអាវខ្ញុំគ្រប់គ្នា។ អ្នកខ្លះធ្វើពុតជាខ្ពើម តែខ្ញុំដឹងថា ពួកគេកំពុងស្អប់ខ្លួនឯងដែលមិនមានអាវដៃវែងដូចខ្ញុំ។ ឈានជើងចូលថ្នាក់ដោយញញឹម ខ្ញុំកំពុងសប្បាយដោយសារពណ៌អាវដ៏ស្រស់ស្រទំរបស់ខ្ញុំផង ដោយសារម្លប់ដែលវាឲ្យខ្ញុំផង ស្រាប់តែ



ដែកក៏មុតស្រួចរបស់វា ចាំងផ្លាតនឹងពន្លឹភ្លើងអំពូល បង្ខំឲ្យខ្ញុំងាកភ្នែកចេញ។


«ខោអាវស្អី! កុំចេះតែនឹកឃើញ។»


«ឯងស្អប់ភូមិយើងមែនទេ? បានជាឯងពាក់ពណ៌លាយស ដូចភូមិខាងត្បូង

«ឯងមិនសមជាកូនអ្នកភូមិយើងទេ! តើម៉ែឯងនឹងគិតយ៉ាងណា

ក្នុងពេលនោះដែរ លោកគ្រូបានកាត់ដៃអាវវែងរបស់ខ្ញុំទៅ។ គាត់ក៏បានឆូត ផ្ទៃពណ៌សនៃអាវខ្ញុំផងដែរ។ ខ្ញុំមិនទាន់ទាំងមានពេល និងស្មារតីនិយាយបកស្រាយពីអាវថ្មីរបស់ខ្ញុំប្រាប់គាត់ផង គាត់ក៏បានចេញទៅក្រៅបាត់។ ស្រឡាំងកាំង ខ្ញុំឈរនៅមាត់ទ្វារថ្នាក់។ អីលូវនេះ ក្មេងៗនៅជិតខ្ញុំនាំគ្នា សើចខ្ញុំ។ គេរើសក្រណាត់ដែលត្រូវបានកាត់ចេញពីអាវរបស់ខ្ញុំ គប់មកខ្ញុំវិញ។

«សមមុខហើយ! នៅស្ងៀមៗមិនចង់។»


«មិននឹកស្មានថា ម្នាក់ហ្នឹងស្អប់ដូនតាយើងអញ្ចឹងសោះ! មិនសមនឹងរស់នៅក្នុងភូមិយើងទៀតទេ

លោកគ្រូវបានត្រឡប់មកវិញជាមួយនឹងនាយិកា។ នៅក្នុងរង្វង់នៃសម្លេង និងកាយវិការជាច្រើននេះ ខ្ញុំនៅតែទប់ខ្លួនឯង មិនឲ្យសម្លឹងមើលអាវដ៏សែនចង្អៀតរបស់នាយិការមិនបាន។ ដូចអាវរបស់លោកគ្រូអញ្ចឹង អាវនាយិកាសឹងតែចង់ប្រេះចេញតាមថ្នេរជាយៗទៅហើយ។

នាយិកាឃើញខ្ញុំ រួចក៏សួរខ្ញុំថា តើខ្ញុំភ្លេចខោអាវចាស់របស់ខ្ញុំហើយឬ?

ខ្ញុំចង់ប្រាប់គាត់ថា ខ្ញុំមិនបានភ្លេចទេ។

ខ្ញុំចង់ប្រាប់គាត់ថា ខ្ញុំបានប្រើប្រាស់ក្រណាត់ពីខោអាវចាស់ ដើម្បីដេរខោអាវថ្មីនេះ។

ខ្ញុំចង់ប្រាប់គាត់ពីមូលហេតុជាច្រើនដែលនាំឲ្យខ្ញុំកាត់អាវនេះឡើង តែសម្លេងរបស់ខ្ញុំបានរត់ពួននៅក្នុងពោះខ្ញុំបាត់ទៅហើយ។

ខោអាវដែលខ្ញុំខិតខំដេរឡើង និងសៀវភៅដែលខ្ញុំខិតខំអាន បានក្លាយទៅជាអាសារបង់ នៅក្នុងពេលមួយពព្រិចភ្នែក។

ខំដេរអស់ជាងពីរខែ គេកាត់ខ្វាច់អស់ក្នុងរយៈពេលមួយនាទី។

ខ្ញុំគិតថា មើលទៅការលើកកន្ត្រៃកំទេចខោអាវថ្មី វាមានងាយស្រួលជាង ការកាត់ខោអាវដោយប្រើប្រាស់គំនិត និងភាពច្នៃប្រឌិត។ មើលទៅការពាក់ខោអាវដែលគេកាត់ឲ្យស្រាប់ វាស្រួលជាងកាត់ខោអាវខ្លួនឯង ទោះបីជាអាវនោះចង្អៀត ដល់ថ្នាក់ខ្លួនដកដង្ហើមសឹងមិនរួចក៏ដោយ។