alone, here on this desolate island—

albeit a nice island, definitely a looker, jungly about the coconuts, has that peeking-over-the-shoulder-allure. Still and all, it takes time to adjust. Exhale. Inhale. Do it again, more slowly this time. Shrug off your tattered clothes. Pull off the metaphorical tie that has been tie-tightened around your neck since your dutiful youth, since you were taught to expect and to ambish, to organize and to strive, plan and plot, since all those buzzing human notions have swarmed your neck and ears and mouth, poking, biting, jamming their probosci into your skin, infecting you with—

Dude: chill out. Take a fucking breath. Look around. You’re in paradise! This beach, this empty beach, it’s perfect, everything is round and it is open, whole and beating just as in the earth’s early years, whatever that means. The water is the color of seafoam, the seafoam is the color of the sky! The sky is the color of a tropical painting—and every night the sunset, oh my. The stars are a bright smear against the blackboard. Winds run back and forth. Clouds idly shift their shapes. There’s no one here but you. Feeling tummy rumbly? Well go on and potty in the middle of the beach, middle of day, nary a stitch of cloth or shame. Who cares? Not that grinning volleyball, and besides, the flies seem to like it—happy flies!

Very quickly you learn to eat well. Believe it or not, a natural fish pond sits in a small cove, the seafish fat and slow, just cruising along, just as you are now cruising, life has nothing behind it anymore, nothing to be anxious about, even death will just be a deep long sleep and what’s wrong with a sleep? Nom nom. Naps are nice, not at all for saps. Fish for breakfast, fish for lunch. It’s a little repetitive but great for the skin and hair. Forget tasting menus and digestifs. Oh well. Fish for dinner. Fish for dessert.

And wander leisurely, too. Press your initials into enormous waxy plant leaves. Shit in a cave. Big stink. Pick your teeth with fish ribs. Nap. Wake up, yawn. How about another? Look up at the stars. Feel part of everything. Look again. Feel lonely. Anyone else out there, looking at the stars tonight, scattered elsewhere across the planet? Thinking, maybe, of you? Dumb stars. Sneer at the stars. Mutter at the fat dumb fish. Eat the fish, muttering, muttering. Make maps in the stars, maps that lead you out of this place. Wonder what’s on TV right now. How the Mets doing this year? Bad, likely. What about that whole piracy thing? Was that Jim Morrison back there? It’s so tiring, thinking how things used to be. Almost as tiring as thinking about how things ought to be.

Take another nap, don’t mind if you do. Wake up, refreshed anew. Find a mango grove, which, sweet, island mango, nice. Totally forget the peril of mango sap and suffer several days of painful rash about your mouth and nose, inflamed, itchy, oozing. Ouchy seawater makey stingy worsey. Wish you had a mirror to inspect the wounds. Plus maybe it’s time for a haircut by now. What if a boat showed up? Would they even want to rescue you, mad-looking as you must be? Fuck ‘em anyway, civilized twats.

Eat another goddamn mango but rinse it this time in seawater. Mango and fish steamed in waxy plant leaf pressed with your initials? Pretty damn good, seems like you have a signature dish now to serve your fancy guests. The cave stinks a little less every time you walk past it; over time, shit, like everything, vanishes. Storms rumble in the south seas. Clouds fill the night skies, and you miss the stars, the familiar features you’ve ascribed to them, Constellation Brother. Constellation Me. Constellation Fish. Constellation Butt. Constellation City Skyline. Constellation Lonely Island. Constellation I’m Not On a Boat. Constellation Little Person All Alone. The storms blot the stars at night. The rains don’t fall so much as lightning ripples restlessly, rashily, through the clouds. Scratch your armpit. A shower sounds nice.

Go swimming again, why not. Get really good at swimming. If they could see you now, all tan and firm, look at those shoulders. Who are they? Who cares. Swim a little further each day. Hey, sea turtle! At least sea turtle sees you, but he only flinches and dives. Think: diving! Learn to dive. Open your eyes underwater and get better at seeing all that ocean below the ocean. All that design beneath the glassy surface of things. It’s fucking beautiful down here. Prick your hand, ouch, urchin. Next time be gentle. Now it’s uni for dinner. Yuck. Dive again. Dive longer.

Again. Again. All of it, again.

These days.

Swim. Breathe. Eat. Relax.

You miss them, these days, you miss them and now already.

You want nothing more than for it to end.

It’d be so nice to have a book or twelve. Lacking such, at night, starless, alone, you make up your own story: Once there was a man who wanted to flee society, so he set out to sea….

Then what. He goes to sea? Doesn’t go to sea?

Gets abducted. Joins a secret plot. Rescues the girl. Dies. Wakes up at the beginning.

Lands on an island. Starts inventing new stories. Or the same stories. Or new ones?

New is good, maybe. New is better. Every day, something new would be nice. Even the smallest something. You don’t get that here. You get you. Over and over again. Yawn. Lean back. Nice sunset. Nice sunset. Fish fish mango fish shit fish mango fish.

Your body is leaner, stronger, your hair is thicker, your skin ruddier. You feel sort of sexy and think it’d be great if someone else showed up, someone attractive, you’re pretty sure they’d be attracted to you. A little bit of fucking sounds damn good these days, doesn’t it?

It’s probably what everyone else is doing, wherever they are. Where are they. What are they doing. Who’s in the playoffs? Is it Halloween soon? What costume would you wear? Are you missing out? Or is missing out the way to really live…?

This is how it goes, loneliness. Thinking. Eating. Breathing. Days pass, weeks pass, years. Over all this time alone, your previously rotting brain chemistry changes, it’s true, but how much, and to what end? Is it better to be a better version of yourself if the you you become isn’t the you you’ve known all your life? What about the ship of Theseus? How much are you still tied to the things left behind? How much have you succumbed to this situation? When does acceptance/resignation triumph over nostalgia/hope?

If you know the answer, turn to page write-your-own-damn-book.

            (Otherwise, flip to the next page.)