Plaster me to myself

Yelapa pushes and pulls my mind through every kind of emotion. Overriding all is a thick inertia and a damp listlessness that pushes me to the floor and sticks a knee in my back.

I am pole-axed. The heat, the boredom, the beauty.

There's little to do here apart from think and drink - something that despite my best efforts just isn't my thing.

So I sit at the proverbial sidelines and watch the locals being sucked into a vortex of routine alcoholism. They sing happily about the lack of hangovers in Yelapa as they order their morning michelada.

I am watching the prologue to Sayulita's sequel. I grasp for the remaining Mexican spirit with both hands.

To get to town I have to wade through a river. If I change my mind and turn left I am in the jungle, ants weaving over my toes and guacamayas dropping fruit onto my head. Comfortable in the knowledge that both are there if I need them, I build my contented nest on the beach and leave only when the guilt outweighs the laziness.

Days are cupped by mountains that shield sunrise and sunset, tinting mornings grey and evenings pink. Time is measured by the pangas that leave the beach for the mainland every couple of hours. Day trippers descend like zopilotes, eating the soul from the place and disturbing the peace with pina colada demands.

I construct a loose kind of routine around my daily swim that makes me feel like I'm achieving something. I am coaxed from my feeble attempts to write by the indolence within.

I am my own worst enemy.

I struggle with personal paranoia. I find myself withdrawing from social situations for no apparent reason. In the middle of a conversation by the evening beach fire I will suddenly lift myself out of the circle of warmth to retreat to my tent and my thoughts. I develop headaches at parties, fall asleep when I'm supposed to meet people.

I spend hours hula hooping because it is easier than interacting.

I don't really understand why and feel myself resisting it, projecting myself back to a time when life just seemed a little more in focus. I worry that in pulling closed my shutters and pursuing this solo journey I have somehow lost the Ju that used to infect a room so easily.

I try to find her and she laughs at me from a great depth.

The more I fight the more uncomfortable I get. Inside seems to be conflict after restless conflict, interspersed with a fundamental need to be close to nature.

We can never be completely free, for at the very least we have the boundaries we set for ourselves.

But I am really quite happy in this isolated state. So why resist?

I seek out pockets of solitary peace and the weeks drift by unchecked.