No-fly Zone

It is four in the morning and Kuta Beach is still a zoo. Drunks with drugs and ciggies play a demented, primal game of survival, the inebriated version. Young males are fighting to claim title of "alpha male", flaunting ink and muscles, trying to show association and might. Men and women, boys and girls, in any combination of the four, play games of cat and mouse looking to recreate rather than procreate. I can handle this madness. I can choose to ignore what I see and I am better off for it. I have the choice to be or not be here.

The other thing I saw this night broke my heart, picking it up, dumping out any remaining local brew, and kicking it to the curb. Kids on the street, trying to sell bracelets and the like at four in the morning. These were not kids that chose to be here. Some of their mothers stood nearby, holding their youngest, most raggedy child. "Hungry," they tell me. I think the children are more tired than hungry, I try to tell them to go home. I try to explain that I would be more than willing to help if their child was not out so late. I offer to by food, but this mother insists on money or cigarettes. Other mothers were not present, but surely they had similar intentions. This is no way to live, no way to grow. Some of the solo children were no older than five, with tired eyes, in among the carnage and profanity of night life. The other children who were with mothers even quite younger. I cannot handle this. This I cannot ignore. This will not fly.

My dreams were muddled, but redundant. They told me to fast from talking. I did not talk yesterday. I need to figure out how to help children like this. I hope the silence of my mouth will help my mind figure something out. I will fast some days until I can think of some sufficient way to help. Silence will mold my mind while fasting, I can talk with people for possible solutions or steps toward a solution the other days. I feel helpless to help the helpless most of the time, but it is all I want to do.