drag themselves down

Now back to the village of sadness I go, when I shall depart again no bodies know. The streets haven't changed much, the people still mope and drag themselves down dead-end, slippery slopes. I won't be here too long, a few days at most, then straight to the west, Californian coast I likely will venture, will fly, run, and bolt as if I'd been stung by electrical jolts. It isn't so bad here, some people will say, who're stuck in a rut and cannot see clearly just how deep depression and foolishness run when people forget that they're made up of suns and stars long-exploded, dust, air, nothingness, that they can take heaps of grief onto their chests or shrug off the weight of their past legacies and venture alone to shores far overseas.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

without conscious thought

Soon upon returning myself to the States for some reason I jeopardize, hesitate; when faced with the prospect of someone I like my pupils go wide and my heart-rate doth spike. Oh why does this happen? Oh what is the cause? Oh what is the reason that I clench my jaws and grind them together without conscious thought and hope that my awkwardness will be forgot? Is it due to all of the heartbreak and shame that I sometimes live through again and again, when I'm off my yoga and deep in the stress about girls and money – not more and not less? To cure it I must now remember to breathe, to stick to my yoga and love its reprieve, to let all the thoughts, fears, and doubts of days passed retreat from the forefront of my mind's broadcast. So be it, then, darlings, there's not much to say besides that I love you more and more each day and that I am sorry for all my misdeeds that increase when I drink and tangle with weeds.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

Bali as quick

I leave on the morrow, I fly in a plane, I hope to be soon to this island again, returning to Bali as quick as I can with hope in my bosom and cash in my hand.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

down and pounding

The pain felt from drinking the night just before does grow as I age and each month it hurts more. The pleasure from slamming down and pounding beers has weakened and lessened much over the years, so that I am loathe to spend my time with drinking – I'd rather rise early with brains left for thinking. The sauce is so popular here and abroad that I find it curious, strange, weird, and odd that mankind can manage to still get things done although he keeps drinking in wind, hail, and sun. To make better choices is left unto me, to hydrate and test my PH using pee, to sleep when I'm tired and rise when I'm not, to prove that I'm free and no longer robot. With each waking second I make myself new, there's nothing in this life that I cannot do, except to bring more people back from the dead (I've done that to myself when whacked on the head).

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on secret spots

I cannot explain where they lie, break, or pack for I have been sworn to a secret compact. To get to them we took the regular ways once we to the Goddess had given fair praise, once we had awakened and strapped on our boards, once we'd made sure all our bikes pointed forwards. They'll not remain secret much longer, I fear, perhaps a few months or maybe just a year, until they'll be crowded with Russian beginners who don't read the rules and are thus surfing's sinners. The breaks are near cliff-sides, sometimes they're near reefs where creeping fish linger with long, spiny teeth, where poisonous starfish and their polyps float, where wee male seahorses their progeny tote. Now come with us on this here new adventure to witness the ocean's ceaseless overture, that's written in current, peak, swell, chop, and wave, that dictates how we think, dream, talk, and behave. I will not say more lest I spill all the beans and ruin what's left (if you know what I mean), and give up the very last Bali secret, a spot that tourism has not ruined yet.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥