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.


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