Crashing of Waves.

Sitting, contemplating wondering about past nostalgia as bad dreams infiltrate the few cubits in my head. Wondering about past future events weighing me down like the nagging of people I don't know - that I don't want to know.

The darkness outside crashing of waves on a beach that holds dangerous cancerous junkie running back and forth at supersonic speeds calling out, "Whacha want? Whatcha looking for, gringo?" Fades into the surf like the flashing of the lighthouse.

Old sea hag wobbles by, I suck on that cigarette butt so nasty, "Wanna fuck my pussy, baby?" She smells like rotten ectoplasm. I look the other way. Fucking women disgust me - screeching harpies will tear a man to shreds if you let your guard down. Steer clear of them, lad, that is your only option.

I glare out into the ocean a few meters away. Here - in this godforsaken beach - I wonder how I got here. Why did I let myself fall into this trap - this mind numbing existence of cocoon comfort?

Back in November, I fell into town with the hopes of living the way I like, saying what I like, doing what I like - half assed writing a book I never wanted. I am just happy spilling this shit out in this blog.

Indeed, I write - I write unpublishable atrocities. And it's not for your garden variety traveller or homosexual - but it is what it is. And this existence has taken a terrible hold on the old mental state. I have few contacts with the world now - the expats here, self proclaimed writers - all drunken misplaced longwinded - tell me what I should do. I smile, agree - the churro vendor strains past with his wobbly, splintered cart with wares that will kill a cat two hours later. But, I don't give a rat's ass what their boring opinions are.

Who are these people? Who are they? Why are they the fountain of virtue and righteousness? They live in shanty adobes lining the malecon row upon row of concrete chicken dwellings like rotted teeth - all under the glare of that bright baneful moon - and yet they feel it necessary to judge?

One drunken character approaches - American - and whacks me hard across the temple, guffawing "We are the crazies! We are all the crazies here." I glare at him in hostile hatred and stand hearing his apology for his uncouth actions for the next thirty minutes. I hate this place - my loathing burns like a solar flare to an uncaring world of hateful phantoms.

Trudge to a cafe, clinking of cups, pale chatter and false laughter of forced gaiety. Mexican kid blocks my way in the door.

"You that writer?" He smiles the queerest smile leering.

I blankly glare down at the dirty tiled floor, mumble, "Yeah."

Nothing, my psyche screams, I want nothing! Cooley passing him sitting at a table with my laptop. I check my messages - scores of them condemning a so called meth addiction that I supposed to have acquired. Enough, I thought, enough - and I start the long arduous texting of the previous drug posts on this blog are excerpts from forthcoming novel dealing with an addiction ten years in the past.

But, why should I care. I don't care what these ghosts think - and why should I? I spent six months of my life knocking out a novel apparently no one wants to read all because these same individuals, these nameless assholes asked me to write.

I keep telling myself I want to stop. But, stop what? Why should I live under prudent regulations of people I do not even know?

Yes, it is time to stop - stop placating these vicious over opinionated people...ya don't like it? Go somewhere else...I don't write for you.