It’s been five long loathsome years; nearly six. Marvelling at the fractal clouds; as I lay on my bed, hoping for an enigma, a reason why, meaning and purpose. Synonymous with the eponymous Robinson Crusoe; as the ocean ebbs and flows and as an old grandfather clock’s pendulum swings to and fro; time eludes me. Pondering, pontificating, perplexed and paranoid. Etching and sketching the tally chart of time. We who tally time by marks in sand or on a wall are proof ourselves that without mark or hope we are but a seamless sentence.
Pardoned, you think of this as some failed guillotine. I, awaiting rescue always meander beach to beach in hope of finding not the bare footprint of the unsought indigenous but any trace of invasion shod. Incubated, marooned and cocooned in this desolate place; the room. These marks were neither in sand nor wall but the deep recesses of consciousness; indelibly inset. When loneliness and isolation exceeds the normal parameters of humanity; one knows instinctively and inherently the cumulative increment of time. The soul has it’s own clock and recording mechanisms.
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