That's what I write to now. Not to music anymore. No tiny buds in my ears, no wires dangling down. Just Sacha's silly hat on my head so I don't pull my hair.
And here the breeze carries the rhythm in my head, like a trance house steam sizzle rustling through the trees. The roosters chime in whenever they so feel like it, and it always seems to work. Kinda. Even if it doesn't really, it's funny as hell, and that works for me.
It's a lazy life here to be sure. Simple. Not much to do in the grandest way. Not much to need either, just a good meal here and there, a decent surf if it can be managed and most times it can. Uluwatu always has waves, and when the swells hit, there's always waves everywhere.
So I'm clear of the dreaded wilderness now.
It's strange. Ever since my death-gripped seven day dance with the devil, every vice has seemed to loose appeal. There's a craving that used to be there that isn't anymore. There's no insatiable lust. No finding for a smoke whenever I see one. And it's been three days now and what's most weird is I don't particularly care for a Bin Tang or any booze for that matter. So much more than that is the desire for a fruit juice because hot damn, they're delectable!
There's an incredibly pure feeling of clarity that keeps washing over me, like I have a lovely little rain cloud of it over my head pouring down on me all day. I care for precious few things now, which is funny to write because I feel like I've been saying that forever, but now I see the airiness of my past. The precociousness. The pedestal I perched myself on like some lofty busted philosopher, and the fool that all self-proclaimed thinkers are, or at least have leading them around by the hand in their heads. Because that used to be me. And I say used to with clasped hands and a prayer that it is sincerely so.
