I don't know why I do the things I do sometimes. Like I don't why I told you I'd fallen in love with you over here. Why would I ever? What stupid mood was I in that to say that to you was a good idea? Some ancient romanticism, I suppose. Some silly ideal of perfection. When I look back at it, the first thing that comes to mind is ew, what a sap I am. What kind of little girl would find pleasure in reading that, some soak-stained morning passion in words of a boy that wakes up alone. I think few hate it more than I do though, the empty bed. Sure, there are mornings that it's nice, but most are met with a cringe and a thrust and a reach for someone that is not there. Here in Bali I greet all days like this.
I think the heat's driving me crazy. I think the lack of weed's writing me lazy. But who knows really what it sounds like. I haven't read any of it over yet. This place though will find me dreaming of my return when I leave. There's a magic here like no where else. A magic that found me a bike so much like my car at home, broken and missing things and badass and fast, that from the moment I first rode it down Uluwatu's one road, I knew. I knew she was mine and I'd never want another, no matter how many times the clutch broke.
It's a powerful magic that tore me down with the death shits and cuts and scrapes and gouges in the worst (well not the worst) places. A calculating fair judge of a power that warrants respect - broken boards, broken boards! - for it's ability to absolutely crush you when it wants to and, good graces permitting, have you flying above the thunder clouds in a soul-full bliss of all-understanding. I've brushed the ghost-grey l'embrace du morde, I have. I've seen such beauty, I've felt love like the very first time, Caroline.
