If I were to be stranded on a deserted island, the one thing I would take with me
would be my empathy that stems from love that I always carry with me. In all the time of solitude that
I would have in the lonely island, I want to empathize with the undulant abyss
that carries the echoes of my sirens in its misty breath that is the breeze of the sea.
Mesmerizing me with its ethereal reflections of lodestars and moonlight--my
nocturnal resonance. It would humble me, it would humble me to a frequency
akin to its own. The innermost depths of my psyche personify the decaying
secrets, rotting stories, of the waters. Fruitless journeys, lost love, desensitized,
hopeless corpses all reside in the turquoise depths that reflect the epitome of life-
the sky. I am also lost, desensitized and hopeless. I, too, have an undying abyss
within my own depths. Tranquility is a foreign sentiment--as foreign as Arabian
spices and Egyptian cotton. This vast body is not at rest with itself nor the
universe around it nor within it. It carries its internal turmoils in its riptides, it
seethes with rage and broods deeply in lament with its tsunamis and hurricanes.
It awaits the moonrise and begs the stars and clouds for ascension with its waves
and crashes the shore in dire, gloomy frustration. The subtle tips of the waves kiss
my feet--teasing them with flirtatious moisture and quickly retreating before I can
kiss them back--so I, too, may know how it feels to experience loss. Then I am left
with nothing more than my brooding abyss and it is left with nothing more than its
undulant turmoil. We are hopeless and hopeful. We are one.