• Island Man


    I lay on the sand, its warmth hugging me as if it was a beige blanket beneath my relaxed and motionless body. The sun raises seamlessly over the wide crystal I call the ocean. As it rises the red lights seem to dance over the many ripples and movements of the ocean. The ocean breaths it’s cool and calm breath. The breeze like breath graces my cheeks and then the rest of my now refreshed body. The Seabirds float aimlessly over the Ocean’s surface. They fly in almost gracefully if it was not for their squabble amongst each other. The breeze now sweeps the entity of the beach. The sand picked up and wisped away, yet the beach remains the same, as if those grains of sand never existed. Well they do exist and I witnessed them, before they left the island as I will.

    I clumber through the lush green vegetation of my beloved Island, The sounds of a thousand creatures, creates the atmosphere of a festival, energetic, loud, yet relaxing and easy to listen to. I come closer to my home away from home, the old shack I found as a kid. Nobody go’s there, it’s my sanctuary. I open the shabby handmade door. I smile, my old friend the multi-coloured parrot “Squawkers” is there to greet me. He flies away into the sky to soar as he was born to do. I smile and sit at an old run-down desk. I put my head down and sleep. The wood is so cold and refreshing.

    The sound of metal noise screech past my window. I dare not open my eyes to the sounds and creeping thought of reality. As the memory of my dreams seems distant now, so does my desired home, the Island, my birth-right? I open my eyes to the dreaded reality I wish I could not wake to every morning. I no longer hear the sound of a festival, but the sound of life passing me by. I close my eyes once more, try to hold on to my memories, before my reality hits me, and I lose them for another fourteen hours. The sounds of many feet resemble that of the constant rain of this Island. I no longer feel the breath of the Ocean, but the foul stench of yesterday’s garbage. I no longer find sanctuary in the old shack. I am confined within a small white box, as are many people. The office is not welcoming. Nor is the beach when I once visited many a year ago. The Seabirds are still there, but there squabble sounds more like they are mocking me, not each other. They do not float aimlessly, but to scavenge for food, dropped by those who pass by.

    As I walk down the streets, I no longer feel the warmth of the sand between my feet, but the leather of my shoes, grinding along the hard surface of the concrete jungle. As I walk everybody rushes by, not paying attention to one another. Each person feels more important than the other. I stand still, everybody become blurs as I try to remember what a real jungle is like, not a polluted concrete jungle, but of a lush green jungle, the kind you get lost in, because of its beauty not because of its many buildings. Ground is metallic as so are the buildings. An un-welcoming metal robot, that works like clockwork.

    Life on the island, calm and relaxing. Not a metallic robot, but a free wind. The Jewel within the pillow of the Ocean. These are my happy memories. I will always be an Island Man.