I live on an island miles from the mainland. An island of paradise, and inexplicable vibrancy.
Where the vines crawl upwards, soaking in the rain and the sun and the moon.
Their green leaves cast shadows holding kaleidoscopes of chlorophyll to the forest floor.
Where fungi grow, sustaining life with microscopic strength and fervor. Where rain pools on the forest floor creating micro ecosystems for life so fragile I dare not touch it.
The sounds of waves lapping on the shore, and the call of song birds in gray mornings provide peace in my solitude.
My island is warm, with a breeze that cools my sun kissed skin.
I have a boat on my island. Drift wood pulled and bent together haphazardly. A necessity to reach the mainland. Large enough only for myself.
My island has storms. Typhoons and cyclones that rip through the trees toppling them over. Uncontrollable, and filled with idiopathic rage.
I hide in the caves where nothing can be seen. My bones soak in the dampness.
My thoughts bounce off the walls, a mocking echo of my loneliness, until silence finally wraps itself across my home in a heavy blanket.
The storms bring waste from deep in the sea to my shores. I gather the brokenness in my hands alone. The redundancy cuts my fingers, and fills my arms.
The wrath of the clouds always smite too quickly for me to reach my boat in time to find shelter on the mainland.
An so, after every storm, I rebuild.
With my intentions floating on the sandy shore, I tell myself I will leave as I dig my feet deeper into the sand.