The Castaway Nomad

...On the morning of February 5th, I found myself on a whole new island. You tend to become indifferent to places when you move a lot, see a lot, observe a lot. This, however, was not a destination I had picked, and I could feel a sense of, for the lack of a better word, trouble. Once a nomad, always a nomad, I began my exploration of the new island only to find that this one was as deserted as the deserts that I had been travelling in. To be honest, I was comforted by the presence of this pattern initially. However, problems have begun to surface lately. To have a clearer understanding of the trouble, I suppose it would be good if I gave a brief account of how things were before I arrived here and also as to how I got here. 

Before the boat wreck brought me here I was travelling in the deserts of the mainland. You develop a certain kind of connection between you and your surrounding when both have something in common. I was never a believer of time and I could feel the same about the sands around me. And so I travelled far and wide, without any sense of urgency until I met a tribe of people who told me about this vast body of water called the ocean. It was water, after all, that got me moving in the first place. I found myself giving in to the temptation of exploring this vast body of water and decided to head in the direction of the ocean, picking up things along the way that would come in handy for this new experience. What the tribesmen forgot to tell me about was the dangers that came with the ocean. So on a bright sunny day when the water seemed calm, I set out to sail. The water seemed as timeless as the sand and again I travelled wide into the ocean, far from the mainland. And then the last thing I remember, I was caught up in a storm that had me struggling for days before my boat gave in to the wrath of the ocean and I was swept ashore here.

Perhaps nobody knows better than a nomad that there comes a time when the place you seek shelter in runs out of resources that sustain your existence and that is the place's way of telling you to look for a new haven. This brings me to the trouble that I mentioned. The main challenge that an island poses is not survival but the resistance against the craving for mainland. If you look at it that way, there are hardly any modes of escape, unless you are a trained seafarer and you know how to make rafts and boats. I, however, am a seasoned nomad of the mainland and I can't think of an escape route through the ocean that surrounds this island. That is my trouble. I climb the highest cliff on this island everyday to look for an approaching ship. I scream at the top of my voice from the cliff in order to hear my voice echo through the hills and make believe that I am not the only one here. To be fair, that has been the only thing that has helped me after the island started showing signs of denunciation towards me. The adversity I am sure has shaped my ideas better than my journeys through the deserts on the mainland but I believe my time to move to a new place has come, if only my destiny allows me to get out of here alive...

A wanderer of deserts, farer of the sea

Craves to embark on a new journey 

If all they say about hope is true

Where is his ship and where is the crew?