The dusk sun had just been visible on the western edge of the city sky, a man with his small backpack containing several sheets of clothes and two books, one of which was a gift from his friend, looking so heavy and expanding on his back as if it also contained live loads. He began his journey with a row of tracks and memories of a wooden house that already looked fragile in the village. Returning this time is the second return for this year, go home to meet his mother then they will tell many things while falling asleep lap mother.
Perhaps it has become a habit, the journey wherever the evening he passes often forced him to remember many things. Dusk for him was a time for contemplation, giving space for the soul and body to prepare to go home and count the fatigue. The beautiful twilight has always managed to bring some sort of melakolia, a kind of feeling suddenly longing for something or just remembering something that ever existed. If he was in such a condition, he would appear in the novels he had read such as Looking for the Edge of Heaven, the Story of the Red Sky, short stories of Twilight for my Boyfriend or a short story made by a classmate who in some parts or fully narrated as a man with a story each of them, the kind of men who love the twilight.
He always believed that the dusk present every afternoon would never be the same. Dusk is always present with every warrna and its own story. The orange gradient becomes a kind of sedative that provides space to remember the day that has been passed. Every twilight bears the burden of prayer and memory entrusted by every man who chants his prayer to heaven because for them the twilight is a transcendental passage, a kind of passage that leads to a belief in what is beyond ourselves and our understanding. Senjalah is a period in which every body rests on the weary day.