I gotta talk to my shrink. Everybody’s got the same face. Everybody’s looking at me. They’re as or even more hostile than I would be, but then again, they’re not actually looking at me. I feel invited but in the worst of senses. I have a provisory unwanted immigrant visa.
My eyes are foreigners, I am an alien, but I do not dress any of my typical clothes, I am not at all typical. Walking down shores and margins as if it was of my choosing doing so. I walk a lot, but I never leave this island. I know of the bridges, but my visa does not allow me multiple exits. And, boy I wanna get out!
I know of the bridges, but I’m a terrible reader of the local signs and twists, I’m unaware of the ways, let alone the limits and boundaries! This island could pretty much be a continent for all I care.
Its sea, untouched by ferries, is a mirror, and on its horizon, I see another island. Deserted. Sometimes, at noon, when the sun is at its zenith, and shadows are but a long gone memory, I can see on its shore, far away, the pathetic image of a castaway, bearing a selfless expression, vanquished, lying motionless, looking back at me. With the same indifference.
- Anonymous author, or unknown.