a random thought about being a diy busker in esarro

i haven’t slept in three days so my brain is basically a broken vcr playing static. yesterday i set up my busking spot under this overhang that smells like old fish and permanent markers. the weather here? i just checked and it’s rain-soaked here right now, hope you like that kind of thing. it’s 15 degrees but feels like 10 because of that 88% humidity. my hat’s stuck to my head and my guitar is louder than my thoughts.

last night i overheard a group of locals talking about a hidden café that serves tea in jars. someone told me that if you get bored, the nearest city is just a short drive away. i don’t know if that’s true but i’m too exhausted to fact-check. what i do know is that this spot has become my new home. i play songs from memory, sometimes singing off-key. a woman in a red dress once asked if i’d play "happy birthday" in morse code. i did. it was dreadful. she laughed. i stayed.

the neighbors here are a mix of people who seem to exist outside of time. one man in a patchwork jacket keeps selling handmade soaps. another woman in a wheelchair does origami with scraps of newspaper. i heard that someone warned me about a guy who throws eggs at tourists, but i didn’t believe it until i saw a broken yolk on the pavement. now i’m too polite to ask questions.

i tried to find a local review of this area but all i got was a tripadvisor comment from 2012 that said "don’t bother unless you like existential dread." maybe it’s true. maybe it’s a lie. either way, i’m here. today i added a new prop: a broken calculator. it’s not working, but it’s pretty. i’d pay for this.

if you’re planning to come, check the yelp for the street food market. it’s called "the market of forgotten things" and some people swear by the tuna sandwiches. others say it’s a scam. i can’t decide. i’m leaning toward scam because i ate one and now my stomach feels like it’s made of lead.

i hate how the weather works here. it’s like the sky is judging me. i tried to play my set under the sun and the guitar noises echoed weirdly. now i’m inside, wrapped in a blanket and humming to myself. the pressure is 1014 hpa, which i think means something about the air being heavy. i don’t care. i’m a diy busker. i make art with what i have.

someone warned me that the beach here is closed for repairs. i didn’t believe them until i saw a sign that said "no entry due to mysterious forces." maybe it’s real. maybe it’s a metaphor. probably a metaphor. either way, i’m not going near the water. i’m too busy avoiding the neighbors who keep trying to give me homemade jam. it tastes like regret.

i also saw a rancid review on a local board that said "this place smells like a sweaty sock filled with hope." i laughed so hard i cried. that’s probably not accurate but it felt true. i think i’ll write a song about it. maybe it’ll be about 2545957. maybe it’ll be about 1504786674. who knows?

if you want to see what i’m made of, check out this map.

i’m the guy in the red hoodie. i’m also probably the guy who will try to sell you a homemade flute made of pipes.

here are some photos of my life.

i’m not sure if this place is worth it. i don’t know if i’ll stay. but right now, i’m here. and that’s enough. maybe. just maybe.

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