I belong to the island. It belongs to me.
I don’t know what else to say.
There is nothing here, nothing but the blue of the sky, mixed with the blue of the ocean, the two of them mixing on the horizon. And on the most perfect days the sky and ocean become one, the two blues become indistinguishable, and they flow together, reunited and whole. At dusk and dawn, they bleed and spew gold. They call treasure hunters if there were any to see them.
What once was the world is so far behind me now.
Sometimes the breeze stings, it brings forth the detritus of their tomfoolery. I would shout at them: look what you did? Look what you did to what you had? But who would I shout at? Who would I send those words at like arrows?
The island is only sand. It’s only sand and shells and sea-creatures. It’s owned by the tides. And they come crashing over, twice each day, pounding the sand, sharp-toothed with froth and salt. There’s nothing to drink, but I wash with the lace. And then I rise above the island - wallowing beneath the waves - wings made from droplets of water. And the sun catches them so that they gleam, they gleam like a beacon made all out of gold. They must be seen from the farthest edges of the earth.
But who is there still to see them?
Picture credit/discredit: author's own work