Castaway

Posted: April 12, 2013 in fiction, imagination, style, voice, Writing

Deserted_Island_SE_by_nxxosI am a castaway. A dreamer. A believer. Alone. On an island. I am a writer.
I go through my day doing what I think is right and expected and necessary. Eating and sleeping and buying air filters at the hardware store and mowing grass and paying the bills and painting the gutters and watching children play on my street and waving hello to my neighbor. I watch the news and read a book and write a letter and turn on the oven to 350 degrees like the box directions tell me to. This is who I am to those that gaze back at me with passive face and hooded eye and indifference.
I am a castaway. A dreamer. A believer. Alone. On an island.
I am a writer. A person whose canvas is the written word. I do not work as a cog of the whole. Teamwork is a concept on the fringes of tomorrow, the agents and publishers and magazines with vested interest, beyond the lonely journey of painting a canvas of words.
I am a castaway. A dreamer. A believer. Alone.
On an island. A solitary place surrounded by water of blue and gray and green and salt and sand and micro-organisms and sunlight reflected like gems into the cloud-spotted blue above. A place where invisible breaths of sun travel downward to bake sand and crab and palm fronds and redden the pale, exposed skin of those who pace the demarcation of wet and dry, pace the edge of sanity, pace to and fro, leaving impressions of heel and toe and hopes and dreams and soul on the underbelly of human condition to be ravaged by persistent waves of hopelessness and madness and obscurity that rush in breathless from all sides.
I am a castaway. A dreamer. A believer.
Alone. Squat in the softness and heat and smoke from a flame borne of broken glass and refracted light and bleached driftwood and windblown debris and desperation as ships of opportunity and dreams and chance and acceptance pass silently on a forlorn horizon.
I am a castaway. A dreamer.
A believer. I write words and paint my canvas in the blood of my desires and wait patiently with retching heart for that ship of opportunity and dreams and chance and acceptance to rescue my soul.
I am a castaway.
A dreamer. With a life-force that beats deep with need and fills my veins with hunger and fuels my capricious muse and culls imaginings and things that could be and things that may never be, all from the fiber of my existence.
I am a castaway. A dreamer. A believer. Alone. On an island.
I am a writer.

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