Thousands of years after the first sound was born in the darkness of the universe, the world has become a completely different place.
Once, it all began in silence. Now, noise creeps into the corners of space. Once, green stretched undisturbed. Now, that color fades, shifting to a red no one ever wanted.
In the past, the wind greeted every creature gently. Now, it often passes by, like someone who forgot to look back at an old friend. In the past, the earth was still and calm, not moving much. Now, it is filled with new creations and creative destruction, there is work, excitement, and destruction born from the hands of its inhabitants.
On a cliff of Roraima facing the twilight light, stand two pillars: the water-armored one named Hate, and the one in the robe of earth named Love, guardian of the earth's memory.
"Love," whispered Hate as she looked at the sky that was changing colors, "why did the world become like this?"
Love smiled faintly. "Because time never passes without bringing new words. Because humans learn to create, even if they sometimes forget to preserve," she said, sounding like a voice from Crooked Forest.
Hate bowing. "Isn't nature angry?"
"Angry?" Love chuckled softly. "No. Nature is not easily broken. Its axis is too old to complain." She tapped the ground with her cane.
"Door to Hellalways choose three things: create, preserve, and then re-melt what needs to be repeated."
Love looks at the forest in the distance, the trees are fewer, but still standing strong.
"So, there's still hope?" Hate asked.
Hate stared at him for a long moment, then replied quietly, "As long as there are still people asking questions like that, there's always hope. There's always something ahead, and we're walking towards it."
The evening wind blew. For the umpteenth time, Hate and Love felt The Underwater WaterfallIt was as if they were smiling again. The two of them decided to travel to every corner of the earth and sky.
"Parabellum"If you want peace, you go to war," Hate said.
"Goodness in heaven is not always related to evil on earth."
"Yes," replied Love, "joy and sorrow: good as enemies, bad as friends. Joy is short-lived in regret, sorrow is long-lived in glory."
They keep slipping into every nook and cranny: coming and going, appearing and disappearing. Wandering is their habit.
Now, under the soft moonlight, in a land guarded by laughter and tears, two friends sit side by side on the edge of the forest. They are not human. They are Meaning And Symbol.
"It's funny," Simbol said with a smile, "how humans think they created us. In fact, we're the ones keeping them from going astray."
Makna chuckled softly. "Even so, they're often confused. Thoughts and feelings are mixed up. Everything is like a tangled mess."
A symbol of looking up at the sky. "Even tangled threads can become a warm blanket, if knitted with love."
Both were silent, remembering the time when that place was a center of teachings about justice and injustice; when wealth was distributed unequally; when people felt more radiant when seen by the camera, than by their own hearts.
"Sometimes," whispered Makna, "the desire to appear is not because of arrogance, but because there is an old wound that has never been healed."
Simbol turned slowly. "And it's that wound that now teaches them about making peace with the past."
Early in the morning, exactly at half past six, at an altitude of 3,142 meters above sea level, I, Dharma, watched the sun rise over the mountains of Bali.
From the west, Mount Batukaru, Sanghyang, Lesung, Pohen, Tapak, Adeng, Catur, Abang, and Batur can be seen standing majestically, like a natural calendar model.
I took a breath. These mountains seemed to teach me greatness of spirit and humility. Behind me, my five companions, Restu, Mang Nik, Angga, Arka, and Trisna smiled slightly.
"Teach what?" they asked.
"That nature and Tartaria must be guarded gently," I replied without looking up. "Not angrily."
Restu laughed cheerfully. "Mount Agung is influencertrue spiritual. Teaching without speaking."
I turned around. "Yes. The aura swept through the river, the trees, the rocks, and even the women's kitchens. Everything felt connected."
On the slopes near the summit, discussions rolled like rocks downhill.
"Do you know why the world is the way it is now?" asked Angga.
"Because long ago," I said, "in a faraway land called Alienus, humans discovered three things." I held up three fingers. "Gunpowder. Compass. Steam engine."
Restu, Arka, and Trisna chimed in, "Gunpowder gives strength to fight. The compass gives direction. The steam engine gives power."
"But all three of them made people forget their hearts," I continued. "They built cities and factories, counting time instead of seasons. Rivers changed color, birds refused to come."
Restu tugged at his slightly sagging pants. "But young people these days are more aware, right?"
"Yes," I replied. "They said: we don't oppose progress, we just want wise progress, without destroying nature."
From there, their seven-night journey began, until they arrived east of Java, where land, sea, and culture beautifully blended. They understood: these three objects were not tools for creating paradise, but rather mirrors for humans to see themselves.
Years later, a boy found a book titled Bali in a flower field.
"Mom," he asked innocently, "what book is this?"
Her mother smiled as she stroked her hair. "That's a story from the past. Now we learn to walk with our hearts. No factories, no smoke. Just wind and birds."
That same morning, on the hiking trail, two tourists chatted under the newborn sun.
"Climbing Mount Agung is very expensive," the French man complained. The Dutch woman replied lightly, "Because climbing isn't just a walk. It's a pilgrimage. We unite ourselves with nature."
Restu and I stood not far from them. I smiled faintly.
But not everything is rosy. Let me give you a small example. In a village square, at the edge of a gradually disappearing rice field, a farmer gazes at the statues being sold as souvenirs.
"We're losing out to tourism," he muttered. "Statues that were once used for prayer are now sold for money. Once we farmed, now we farm cement."
Someone approached him. "It's not the bad land. It's the wrong rules. It's not the muddy water. It's the closed heart."
The farmer stared into the distance. "Bali cries silently. Price is more important than meaning."
Restu patted himself on the shoulder. "But hope isn't dead yet."
"Hope?" whispered Arka.
"Yes," I replied, "mutual cooperation, honesty, and mutual assistance must be revived."
At half past eight in the morning, on the slopes of Mount Agung, the wind blew prayers. I closed my eyes. Restu stood by my side.
"What do you think is the role of humans in the world?" he asked.
I smiled, holding back the tears that came from nowhere. "Perfecting history with kindness, I said."
They nodded. "And walk with nature," I added, "not conquer it."
From afar, the laughter of Meaning and Symbol can be heard, guarding Magnetic Hill, which is still learning to reconcile with itself. From the rooftops of Bali, the story of Hate and Love reveals the veil between the real world and the world it aspires to create.
From here the epic Hate and Love strong.