Early morning, dark blue, grey and orange skies. Warm rain saturated the wooden balcony, the wind transforming our washing line into a fluttering sail. I stood at the helm of the ship and considered all that regularly consumes my thoughts, pointlessly. I looked out to sea and felt the tug of the blue water’s infinite capacity to provide clarity. The pithy, ridiculous fillers of my mind slowly dispelling. The rage that sometimes finds me, surprises me like a ball of fire inside the part of me I don’t recognise, liberated by my lack of ‘everything’ I believe myself to need.
What do you really need to be a writer anyway? Apart from the main thing I hold dear to me; my imagination. It allows for the posts that I really like. When I feel vulnerable writing them, but similarly, nonchalant. It’s when I hit somewhere I don’t want to be, that my mind is filled with creation. It’s the numbing of being somewhere repetitive and alone that manifests itself in the mundane loveliness, that feels nothing. I long for the ability to write what I want; a book- but I am terrified of the ultimate, and balk at the indulgence. I also feel choked by all those doing more and better. Everyone of course. Until then, I stare out to sea where the possibilities are endless and my ambition is given the nod from the skies.
In my diary for day four I have found myself shocked by Charlie calling us ‘flash packers’ again, as was mentioned in my previous post. Mortifying, and yet true in many ways. We want the experience of the backpack, in a blast; to feel the joy of your ‘home being where the backpack is’, as opposed to an ever growing household contents. It’s the need to travel, have babies and a career that once again strikes its mighty whip. At the moment I am fulfilling none of these triangular achievements. A quick stop shop to Thailand is literally like popping to SPAR for your weekly shop, when there are acres of fresh fruit, wines and homemade breads just a hop skip beyond it.
But I’m lucky of course. And it’s beautiful. So, so beautiful. The colour surrounds us, vivid and intense, the sound of the cicadas chirp in unison and the birds holler from the depths of their throats. It’s what you dream of when you’re cycling up a hill in the rain, or slipping your arm out from under the duvet at 6am in November. But mostly, being on holiday is time. The luxury of devoting the seconds to whatever and whoever you wish, and whatever and whoever takes you at that second/hour/day at the whisper of a hint.
Today we walked in the rain. We drank coffee by the beach and ate cake. Then we walked along the beach for miles. Sat in the sun. Snorkelled. Swam. Read. Then ate coconut soup with white rice and drank tea. And talked or were utterly silent throughout. And that was absolutely perfect.