Stream of consciousness. Bali.

Branches sway. Leaves rustle. Above, the brown flash of macaque moving through the green. Another movement. Brown. Smaller. Then another and another. I look down at my phone. The emails take me back home. Flick through them quick. Don’t interrupt my day. I’ll be back home soon. Writing 101. When was it going to start? I highlight with a purple star.

Sunlight bounces off the pond. Lilly pads, pink blooms, emerald moss, dragonflies.  A small stone Buddha statue, orange flowers in a woven basket. Offerings to the gods. The drone of motorbikes, cicadas clicking; their intensity increases as the day heats up. The heady perfume of frangipani flowers, white bold and perfect, fallen from the trees. Drowsiness sets in. My hand drops. The phone lies by my side, forgotten.

My blog. Who am I writing it for? Me. But the audience. Who do I want to read it? It still seems too personal. Baring my soul, my thoughts, my life. Do I really want to do this?

Bali would be a peaceful place to write. Be a writer. Live cheap, eat wonderful food and immerse in the spirituality.

Another monkey moves through the treetops calling out. A soulful sound. The troop he’s searching for call back and he leaps away. Swing. Jump. Grab.

What would it be like to move so freely through the trees? Does he think with each movement or is it automatic.

Movement without thought.

Writing without thought.


Bali Buddha

Bali Buddha