02/12/2019
Does it seem that one writes badly when one is happy? We have nothing to tell because we do not see what can extract the minimum of literary substance. Literature would be the abyssal void filled between phenomena and their interpretations. The gaping disposition of the territory to be explored, these whole areas of relation to the world in its nakedness and its purest essence.
All these Thais waiting for the tourist, the stranger will not come, he knows it's raining, the sea is infested with jellyfish and a maroon color. Germs and little wavelets jumping like crazy sheep, so many privileges that tourists excrete. I'm still going to ruminate, I'm going to pay my reminiscences again, I'm going to drink until the complete loss of the reasonable. I come from a family that loves to be hara-kiri, who loves to humble himself, to humble himself, to curl up in his miserable fate, thus forgetting to disembody to embrace the beautiful sadness of the world, or his joy but I do not do not see it ... Why was not I from an epicurean family? Not just French "means", with medium ambitions, visions of monotonous and dreary existence. I tried to escape from it, but my brain educated to mazochism strikes morale, destroys cells, encourages depression. What is depression? vital loss, recurrent and unhealthy ideas, wanting murder, envy of self-destruction of the world first, of me afterwards ... I felt so dissociated from the reality of this world, that this interior refuge populated with dripping cellars and Viscous bed, in a diaphanous light, sees me wallowing in molasses. I already had this weird depiction on intramuscular shoots of ketamine.
Yesterday, strange day, I deviate my super-thongs, not knowing absolutely where I would have lost them, a cat of ordinary docile, decides to lacerate my arm, I fart at night the mouth on the hammock, that these morons did not find better than to stretch diagonally on the terrace of the bungalow. So my brain would be so holed? These losses are those absences of moments without relief, without reminiscences, me who usually glued all the pieces. Me who usually seemed organized in my travels, finished all that. That night the rain was drumming like thousands of drummers on the corrugated iron. These spiders, cockroaches and other insects, took refuge in the bungalow, I gave them peace and refuge, they were worried to see such a big thing (me) be animated with peaceful feelings. The orientation of the day will be weird, misery my carcass not to drink his dose of alcohol. These idiots Thais have never thought to put speed breezes on the only road to the island, sidewalks, to slow the madmen furious driving, the risk of getting screwed by an excited steering wheel are very real. No roadblocks, no speed bumps, no cop, no town hall, it reminds of India where the cop never raises his head to work, but focuses on his Bollywood phone. In addition to having no use for the population, it is a villain who in a complaint will want to extort money from the belligerents.
In the morning at Koh Chang, we see this ballet of the mini-bus depositing and bringing the tourist in the heat of the sun (there is none) and fleeing the empty places, quickly return to Bangkok or Chiang Mai.
