A great source of acute commotion is the silence that often creeps up and surrounds you, bringing the faded forward, and the background noise gets daunting and closer. Your own island is the line between bliss and torment, often flailing on either side, and sometimes even going far astray to one. Have you ever really discovered your own island? What is it made of? What is the fear that keeps you from it? Or is it the disguise that our realities that keep jerking us to the fickle, the easier, the surface where a spade is most definitely a spade? The alternate reality where your island poses questions and irks your mind is daunting and dark, or is it just me? Is it endless or have you gotten your horizons figured? Why do we run and what from? And towards what? What is this happiness that we so desperately seek if not from inside, the island? Does improper happiness derived from the fickle, the insignificant qualify as happiness, or is it just a way to delude ourselves into frequent oblivion of the quiet conscience? When all else is quiet and you’ve got all doors slowly close on you, even if it’s for the night, you’re forced to look within, curse the human nature to always look – damn us inquisitive beings. What do you find inside? Do you falter? Do you hesitate? Or do you plunge in with your head thrown back in all your silent glory? What role do the people around us play? Our work, our escapisms, our books? Is it all just a cruel circus we’ve designed to keep us fashionably preoccupied and away from the within, the island? Is our carefully constructed external life such, so as to avoid the inevitable? Where would you run? And how long does it take you to discover that you can’t really run. How do you silence your mind? Is there a way to do that, do you try to drown the noise with loud, meaningful music? Or desperately sought-after stimulating conversations that occasionally sweep you? Is it liquor or drugs that help drown the noise and fade the island? Is it absence of the island what we have come to know as “bliss”? But has anyone really discovered how to detach self with the island? Is that why no one really stood within the nirvana we call “self-actualization”? Is the fact that we can’t escape the within, the reason we haven’t yet found satisfaction? The chaos we adhere to, and happily so, to drown the island that knows you too much, too deep. The scars are reflected upon the skies and the constellations on the island, and it’s routes are those of your heart, experiences and memories. Yet, one little push towards it and our breath catches in our bosoms. Is it just me or is the island the ultimate fear that man has yet to overcome? Great rulers and leaders may have conquered lands and made them their own, but who’s to say what your own island has in store? Is there someone? Anyone?
