The morning hangs heavy with salt and possibility here on Maenam Beach. My coffee – black as Bukowski’s mood, strong as the memories that drift like weathered fishing nets across my consciousness.
Achara’s grandson just delivered fresh prawns, caught just before sunrise. These aren’t just seafood; they’re living poetry, each crustacean a verse written by the Gulf of Thailand. The way they glisten, man – it’s like they’re still dreaming of deeper waters.
I’ve been here twelve years now. Twelve years of watching the tide roll in and out, watching tourists become locals, watching myself transform from a wandering journalist to… well, whatever I am now. Something between a storyteller and a beach philosopher, I suppose.
The sun’s climbing now, burning away the morning mist. Another day in paradise? Nah. Another day of raw, unfiltered existence. Bukowski would’ve appreciated this – the brutal honesty of a simple morning, the poetry hidden in plain sight.
Might grill these prawns later. Might just watch the waves. Who knows?
Cheers.
Want me to continue or elaborate on anything specific?
