I am, indeed, an island.
Like that fifth grade project create-a-country where you papier-machêd a dream paradise land with palm trees and dolphins and strawberries into the shape of a moon. Something isolated, something forced, something repressed, but dreamy. Far away, lonely as hell, heavenly and void of civilizations. Something private and deeply exposed beneath the sun and dry sand.
When I run out of sleep, when I run out of thirst, my head becomes a glass ball full of swirling smoke. Swirling, swirling, swirling.
No man is an Island, Fer said, dammit Alice, No man is an Island
But I am, indeed, an island. Also worth noting, I am not a man. I have found out a way to fortify myself with a moat the size of an ocean, and while my voice carries far and eerily across the sea, most voices that get released are tired and shortsighted, focused on surviving the time of day and surviving the weather.
Yes, I have visitors by motorboat, but I hide in my jungle. I feel like that terrifying island from life of pi that glows at night and that which is organic becomes carniverous. Hidden, mystical, barbarious, scared of myself.
Other times its beautiful, peaceful, and quiet, colorful but distant. Could be swallowed up by the sea, dying for company.
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