I live on a beautiful private island off the west coast of the Indian Ocean. My humble abode is set amidst scattered mounds of land atop a spreading carpet of water.
Over thirty years I worked and placed all my faith in the dream of owning such a home. It took a lot of sacrifice, tears and sweat to finally turn the key to my ocean front home.
I remember the first night I lay on my reclining pool chair staring at the dark blanket above, ridden with holes that let through brilliant starlight. The water’s gentle lap against the shore lulled my mind to blissful heights. I now had what I always wanted.
There’s a catch as these things go. The view is mainly mine and time mostly spent alone. To build my sanctuary I burned my bridges, and this is the only place I call home. It’s an island. Whatever’s in it belongs to me – the beauty around and within. It also keeps everything else out – so here flesh and bones into dust my destiny lies.
No time for regrets, I didn’t spend so long building up my throne to bring it down in a crash of terrible thoughts. Pride won’t allow the loss of bone loneliness leaves each cold night. So my own voice is what I hear when exclaiming at the stars, and the terrible hurricanes send me flying to the cold basement with a blanket as shield.
No one to call and nothing to see, I spend my days in the island I built.