For as long as I can remember, a sense of isolation is all I have ever known. A calling to both wither and thrive in the absence of comfort and company. It has of course often waived and swayed, changing with the times and the many of things that these lines brought upon the reality that I once knew, the reality that I once tread – but regardless the pull had always been there, it was ever-present, always looming. But the path the islander has always been more than that of self-isolation, has always been more than simply closing and locking the doors – and walking slowly towards whatever final fate awaits. For the islanders of old have even spoke of cycles of cold that were endured, the bright city lights amongst darken and frigid hours. It’s those very night that I see when I close my eyes and know for a fact where and how this all ends.
But until that is reached, until that cycle is broken, this phase is forever evolving, forever existent, looping over and over that so much I have grown so fond of, as well as so much that I’ve grown so tired of. Like sketching figure eights amongst the stars in the vast yet darkened night skies – such vastness means nothing if ours eyes are merely fixated upon the patterns we’ve created with our own minds. It is in knowing this that drives me even more to return to the crumbling reality, to not only witness the fruition of the final fates, but to also bask in them like I had always known was bound to happen. For now that there is no more fear, and only the fleeting sense of purpose and looming calling of isolation – I can now tread the path of the islander, but in my own right.
