Nov 27 (edited) • Bali Chronicles- Nomad Book
50 meters from the myth.
Bali • healing •Eat Pray Love • Journal • Creative Process • Shadow
I’m about to leave this place. Four days left, maybe less.
Six months living fifty meters from the Eat Pray Love house.
You know, that house — the pilgrimage site, the fairytale. Everyone wants their piece of the myth, their Bali breakthrough, their Instagram enlightenment.
For a year and a half I wandered — islands, chaos, smells, touches, impossible love, wind on a scooter, hunger, survival, losing myself, finding scraps of magic at the bottom of the night. Żywe doświadczenie.
Then I landed here. I didn’t plan it. I never do. Suddenly I passed this house.
At first, the Eat Pray Love sign was just a background joke.
The world’s most spiritual sign.
But after the tenth time walking past it, something cracked. I couldn’t ignore it. The word “Love” was almost mocking me — but it also called out.
That’s when I did something I’d been circling for months, maybe years.
I wanted to write. I started recording the texts, sort of a book but not for paper. I started reading out loud, for real, for nobody, for the frogs in my garden, for everyone.
I became the living journal.
Because I needed to do it or I’d drown in my own tears and stories.
Although the Eat Pray Love sign was never my destination,
it really was the trigger —
the pop-culture monument that finally pissed me off enough, moved me enough, to start doing the thing I’d been dreaming of since I remember.
Now, I’m leaving this place for a while to travel again. My life still isn’t a movie.
I lose my glasses. I run out of money. I cry, I paint, I argue with my own darkness, I make dresses from old bedsheets, I fall in love without soft filters, find something ancient for a minute and lose everything the next.
Fifty meters from the myth,
and everything real that happened to me —
happens off script, in the shadows, in the kitchen, in the middle of the night when nobody’s watching.
This isn’t Eat Pray Love.
It is Love, Break, Rebuild.
But maybe, for one stupid minute, when I recorded myself for the first time under that sign, it meant something.
It cracked me open, and I started telling the story.
Why could I post this now, but not for 6 months, even when I was driving myself to the edge of survival?
Because today the gate cracked open for one second.
I posted it before it could shut again. That’s actually very powerful.
Because survival mode and expression mode are not the same nervous-system state.
When you’re in deep survival:
- your body is scanning for threat
- your brain is stuck between freeze and flight
- creativity doesn’t flow — it hides
- decisions feel dangerous
- visibility feels like death
- every action feels like exposure
In that state, “creating” isn’t a technical act.
It feels like standing naked on a battlefield.
When something shifts to creative mode:
- you move location
- you move breath
- you let the dam break to (tears, chaos, anger, art)
- you let the shadow be seen instead of fought
And suddenly your body marks a tiny square of safety: “This… is allowed. Just this.”
So you didn’t move because you are confident. You moved something, a block, a feeling, because the gate cracked open for one second. And you walked through before it could shut again.
Part 1. More soon.
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50 meters from the myth.
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A Bali Book _ notes from the road (witness & read aloud), a Creative Asylum - 3, 7, 21 days creative laboratory. See you live!
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