The Island's birthday.

A year later.
The Island has reemerged from the sea. Intact, wild and beautiful. Its secret location : high up in the North, cloaked in grey mists and deep fog. It rains, the winds howl often yet there is no more blissful place where to be : a place of precious solitude, of space and silence. Solitude, space and silence. The three essentials S so bitterly missing anywhere else.
After so many months spent in dry countries, Josephine is back on the 'Etat-Dame'.
A few days ago, it was the island's birthday. She hanged garlands accross the trees, put the flag up the mast, lit the lantern at the top of the lighthouse and light up torches everywhere, candles and incense along the sandy paths. Brightly illuminated, the Island could have been seen from far away in the deep dark sea. But no one was there.
When all was ready, Josephine took her picnic basket and went to the shore for a midnight feast. Many a kindly ghosts looked on and smiled, reminiscing about their own time of special happenings and secret delights....
When the food was gone and the wine drunk, Josephine sat there a long time, dreaming in the distance. With only the soft rush of the waves nearby and shadows of spirits and animals around, it felt eerie perhaps, but also tranquil and perfect.
Josephine was back. And not ready to leave ever again.

Just once. To stop.

We think big of ourselves. But we are no different than ants in size and importance. We are born, we breathe, live, laugh. And suddenly die. And what in between ? I Must Stop and think. I must stop and meditate on the state of things. I must stop and take time. I must stop and look back at the void open ahead. I must sit still and ponder and stop thinking and just be. And exist more deeply. And feel more deeply. And love more deeply. Yet I dont. Never. Stop and sit. I run and rush and talk rubbish and watch rubbish and let precious time flows wasted, on nothing, on rubbish and precious time given to me to try and Understand is simply gone. Wasted. Frittered away in pettiness. In nothingness, on daily mondanity and tiny concerns. Life happens to us just once. But again and again, we forget and live unconscious. Happily unconscious ? Or stupidly so ? Is the man asleep happy or simply ...asleep ?