I recently ripped up all the carpeting in my bedroom. As I was cleaning my room, I found I was complacent with something that meant a lot to me, and was distraught. I've decided to conserve some memories I almost lost. (I went on a trip, and kept a 500 page notebook on my trip, a book that was full to the gills with info, pictures, writing, depression, happiness and soul searching. I found that book on my damp floor, almost soaked through with water. I wrote the latter half of the journal in felt tip. Most survived, it seems, however)
Anyhow. That is the inspiration for the burst of writing I feel I need to do.
===
The first few days were spent drifting in and out of reality. There was no past. No tomorrow. Only that day. That hour. That moment. The activity I was engrossed in at the minute. A change from my normal pace of life and it's constant fears, worries and reflections.
I was on a tiny island in Southern Thailand, and had been for a few days. I was living in a tent 20 feet from the ocean at high tide. I would wake in the morning when the sunlight would hit my tent, and it would get too warm to sleep. At around 7 am I would roll onto my side to watch the shore slowly creep it's way up to the tent. My eyes were drowsy, my body achy from sleeping with no pillow.
My days were full of fulfilling activities. I read some books from the english library the National Park kept. A mix of things, some on Buddhism, some trashy Stephen King novels. Old emails I had printed out.
My daily tradition was to walk up and down the long beach at low tide, then swim when it was hot and the tide was high at noon. I would sit in the surf, able to see the fish swimming at my feet and able to keep an eye on my tent. My home. My place of solitude. Occasionally I would climb the tower near my tent, and read as the sun set. Or I would take it in from my stump outside my tent, freshly showered, maybe a little sunburnt.
I was completely happy and yet lonely. I saw others talking with their old or new friends at dinner, and I would simply observe them. While they chased phosphorescence in the surf after dark, I would try to catch crabs. Time would wash in and out, I had no desire to leave. No energy to leave. It was like a drug induced catatonia.
Then, one day, I met him.
I was in the surf. For hours, it seemed, longer than usual. Probably because he was out there. I had seen him for the past few days in the restaurant. He would read, or talk to others. He wore a Mooks shirt a lot, his hair skewed to the side, messed up. Gleaming smile only enhanced by the hint of a sunburn on a layered tan. He walked barefoot after dark. Carried a notebook often.
These things I observed from a far. "He's a young soul, recently broken up with his girlfriend, exploring. No. A rich kid trying to find himself." these stories I would make up. Elaborate tales, as I ate my fried rice and drank bottle after bottle of cheap Thai beer. I did not smoke, but wished for a cigarette those nights. I wanted to be mysterious and sultry, just as he was to me.
As I played in the surf that day, I would glance over at him, only my nose and eyes above the calm waters. He was chasing fish and getting sucked in by the waves. I would smile underwater as he pulled up his sand ridden shorts.
Maybe it was forty minutes, but it seemed more like two hours, but I finally asked him what he was chasing.
We stayed in the water for the next few hours talking. He was British. A journalist interning in Australia. He was on a break. He was single. He was not a pining heart. He was not rich.
The next two days were more than therapy could ever give me. We ate dinner on a yacht in the bay, invited by the owners. We drank too much and tried to read. He read me his writing, and I laughed at everything he said. Such wry humor. He told me his irrational fears he had never told anyone. We both feared fish and touching old food on a plate. We would impress the Thai students on the island with our lack of frisbee playing activities.
We hiked up to the sunset point, to watch the sunset, only to leave when the German tourists began to arrive. We would talk for hours about the mechanics of thought behind suicide, tourists, minimum wage jobs, schooling, taking over the island. We slept side by side in my tent, like couples that have been married for forty years.
I loved him and yet could not.
We both parted ways on March 16, 2002 after two and a half days together. He went back to mainland Thailand, Singapore bound. I went to another island. We both thought it was silly that when you met someone while travelling you immediately got their contact information. I think we were both too proud to admit we wanted each other's info though.
I do not know where he is now, but I miss him.
Anyhow. That is the inspiration for the burst of writing I feel I need to do.
===
The first few days were spent drifting in and out of reality. There was no past. No tomorrow. Only that day. That hour. That moment. The activity I was engrossed in at the minute. A change from my normal pace of life and it's constant fears, worries and reflections.
I was on a tiny island in Southern Thailand, and had been for a few days. I was living in a tent 20 feet from the ocean at high tide. I would wake in the morning when the sunlight would hit my tent, and it would get too warm to sleep. At around 7 am I would roll onto my side to watch the shore slowly creep it's way up to the tent. My eyes were drowsy, my body achy from sleeping with no pillow.
My days were full of fulfilling activities. I read some books from the english library the National Park kept. A mix of things, some on Buddhism, some trashy Stephen King novels. Old emails I had printed out.
My daily tradition was to walk up and down the long beach at low tide, then swim when it was hot and the tide was high at noon. I would sit in the surf, able to see the fish swimming at my feet and able to keep an eye on my tent. My home. My place of solitude. Occasionally I would climb the tower near my tent, and read as the sun set. Or I would take it in from my stump outside my tent, freshly showered, maybe a little sunburnt.
I was completely happy and yet lonely. I saw others talking with their old or new friends at dinner, and I would simply observe them. While they chased phosphorescence in the surf after dark, I would try to catch crabs. Time would wash in and out, I had no desire to leave. No energy to leave. It was like a drug induced catatonia.
Then, one day, I met him.
I was in the surf. For hours, it seemed, longer than usual. Probably because he was out there. I had seen him for the past few days in the restaurant. He would read, or talk to others. He wore a Mooks shirt a lot, his hair skewed to the side, messed up. Gleaming smile only enhanced by the hint of a sunburn on a layered tan. He walked barefoot after dark. Carried a notebook often.
These things I observed from a far. "He's a young soul, recently broken up with his girlfriend, exploring. No. A rich kid trying to find himself." these stories I would make up. Elaborate tales, as I ate my fried rice and drank bottle after bottle of cheap Thai beer. I did not smoke, but wished for a cigarette those nights. I wanted to be mysterious and sultry, just as he was to me.
As I played in the surf that day, I would glance over at him, only my nose and eyes above the calm waters. He was chasing fish and getting sucked in by the waves. I would smile underwater as he pulled up his sand ridden shorts.
Maybe it was forty minutes, but it seemed more like two hours, but I finally asked him what he was chasing.
We stayed in the water for the next few hours talking. He was British. A journalist interning in Australia. He was on a break. He was single. He was not a pining heart. He was not rich.
The next two days were more than therapy could ever give me. We ate dinner on a yacht in the bay, invited by the owners. We drank too much and tried to read. He read me his writing, and I laughed at everything he said. Such wry humor. He told me his irrational fears he had never told anyone. We both feared fish and touching old food on a plate. We would impress the Thai students on the island with our lack of frisbee playing activities.
We hiked up to the sunset point, to watch the sunset, only to leave when the German tourists began to arrive. We would talk for hours about the mechanics of thought behind suicide, tourists, minimum wage jobs, schooling, taking over the island. We slept side by side in my tent, like couples that have been married for forty years.
I loved him and yet could not.
We both parted ways on March 16, 2002 after two and a half days together. He went back to mainland Thailand, Singapore bound. I went to another island. We both thought it was silly that when you met someone while travelling you immediately got their contact information. I think we were both too proud to admit we wanted each other's info though.
I do not know where he is now, but I miss him.
