Forward. Outward. Into the blue. My island seems so large, the only land around. The only land I've known for a long time. The tide is a comfort. The soft white sand, a luxury. The soft wave of the palms in the breeze has me absolutely mesmerized. But beyond the beach, beyond the trees and the sweeping grass, what is there but another beach? To the right and left the island stretches on for what seems like forever, but it seems to be a never-ending stretch of two beaches. Nothing but grass and palms and beaches. No food. No fresh water. No hope. Only a fools hope.
So I tear through the island. I cut out the grasses. I hew through the trees. Scars course through the bark of the palms. Poisonous bark. Venomous bark. My hands are shredded from the work. My arms are tired and my head hurts, but there's nowhere to rest. No soft bed, no roof from the storm. Only the luxurious beach. Only the tide. Coming in and going out. It's beautiful. Warm. Calming. But offers no shelter from the storm. No home.
To take what I have wrought is the goal. To rip apart something so peaceful, so comfortable, for fear of a storm I cannot predict. Leaving on a construction that I cannot test. In an effort to avoid a storm I'm not even sure is coming. But I am sure. They've come before. I'm in the middle of a torrential downpour telling myself that the rain is not a storm. Nothing grows here. The storm won't kill me, but it's enough to stop anything from growing.
It's hard to leave something you know. But maybe once you're gone it will have been harder to stay. I've gotta tie together the raft. Good night. Merry Christmas.
