I can't explain why it takes me ages to write about an event. 

Sometimes, it just seems like stories can't be told well until they have been retold too many times in your head. 

Yes, even until the joke gets too old. 

There is plenty to say about my recent trip to Bali. 

How I almost didn't make it, the way friends gave me full support, scrambling for last minute tickets and the anxiety while I waited for replies and help. 

But that's a long story. 

Here's the short version. 

We made it, 4 people with last minute tickets and little knowledge (and money) for the place we would call home for the next 6 days. 

We arrived, got terribly lost and disappointed by the supposed 700m walk to the beach only to arrive right smack in the middle of the most beautiful sunset we have ever seen.

'Ahh, this is Bali!'

The next few days were spent bumming on the beach over bintangs and teh boloh between sessions of smashing ourselves in the waves. Lepak. I've once told T that I can't just do nothing. I get swallowed by my sense of guilt and I end up cleaning my room or altering something, anything. It must be something about having sand between your toes and salt in your hair that makes you just enjoy bumming. Must be that thing they were talking about in Eat, Pray, Love. (which I recently re-watched and loved.)

The sweetness of doing nothing.

And who can forget the waves, the ones you dodge with hugged knees as it hits your back, tumbling along with the might of the waves. It's only logical to feel frightened but I felt so calm, so safe as if there was no need to think of what lays ahead and be part of that body.

To exist.