There was too much traffic so we stopped to go for a swim in the sea that sometimes covers the very road we were driving on. The water was nice, chilled my fingers and toes at first but once I got over the initial numbing I wanted to stay in it forever. I had never been so close to pelicans diving into the sea, clearly my lengthy body which I tried to stay on the surface with was sitting ontop of a feast of fish below.
After a good 20 minutes (why don't we do this more often?) we dry off and get back into the traffic. A couple of young kids were spotted, obviously drunk and having a good time, walking towards the oncoming traffic. Tattoos and toned bodies, shaved heads, tan skin. These were the children that had been to war.
Their 'fuck everything' attitude rang through their comradery even though their ethnicities were worlds apart. Brothers made in lands far away, experiencing things no human should ever see or feel. Maybe because of Hemingway, at one point I thought war would make a person a better writer. Did these boys write?
I know I would. Like now, and my experience from last night which is making me feel like I want to drive away and never come back again. The mind is such a powerful tool and when it goes off on itself I am in trouble. I need to learn how to channel this energy into something bigger than myself because obviously there are much larger things out there. Like war, the ocean, an opening night play about Rachel Corrie (bless her heart) that I had to leave because my mind thought it was too big to be in that intimate theatre in the woods.
So big deal. I write a single paragraph that records my fears of the night. Fears that make me feeling like leaving everything and exisiting in a world with nothing. And I feel like driving, just driving far away. Like he doesn't understand me and maybe I should leave. But I know it was the weed, and making a decision like that after a night like that should be with caution. Beginning again. We always begin again.
Monday, August 22
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