Adrift, in a never-ending sea.
Castaway, one island in an ocean of nothing.
I never feel hungry, nor do I thirst, yet each day I grow weary and sleep.
There are no boats to break the water, no storms to sully the waves.
And every day, I look up at the sky, and I ask how, how did I get here? And for what?
There was a time when I longed for death, and a time when I tried to grasp it for myself, by every time it slipped just out of reach, leaving me alone again. But that time was a long time ago. Just as those on land have accepted that they will die, I have accepted that I will not.
But why? Why am I here? On this island there is nothing to do, nowhere to go. With painstaking labor and ages of time I built a shelter, tools, crude furniture. But to what end? There is no one to share it with, no one to benefit from it but myself, and I have no physical need of them anymore. I tried to die, but I cannot. I tried to leave, but I cannot; no matter the distance I travel, in swimming or in sailing, when I grow weary and sleep I wake to find myself back again on this island, this island I do not call mine, though I have all rights to do so.
It may be Hell, but for a lack of suffering. It may be Heaven, but for a lack of joy. It may be Purgatory, but for a lack of penance.
I have reflected upon my life, and I know now a great deal many more things I never knew about myself before. But still I am here. Never moving. Never changing.
Lost at sea.