Row to the Island
I row to the island for the last time. In sight of the shore I relinquish the oars to the waves and bound from the boat into the warm, waist deep water.
The boat makes land with a whooshing sound of acceptance in the sand. Later, I will decide its fate, firewood or shelter, now I must claim my birthright.
This is my island, it is me, and I am the island.
No man is an island
Except the man who wishes to be
Or the man exiled to be
Or the islands named after men
Can women be islands?
Have I missed the point completely?
Missing the point
Is not always bad
Shading adds definition
Whereas the point
seperate black from white
six random words
Waving in monochrome I see colour
Taste the rainbow
(It’s not acid, just really good candy)
Google search: how high do I need to be to taste colours?
Answer: Very. Unless you have synesthesia.
Train of Thought
I asked friends and family for a starting point and followed the train.