The islands, in the end, were not his destination. Panacea lingered alone at the beach. Each day he fell further into a familiar lull, the old tired rhythm of solitude. He felt ill-fitting in his own skin; some days drowning in the vastness of the self and other days splitting at the seams.
It was a sluggish feeling, he told himself one morning, like a humid heat. Something dull tugging at the edges of the soul, cajoling; wouldn't it be nice to just sleep? Wouldn't you feel better, feeling nothing at all?
But the shifts were constant.
Another evening the feeling was sharp like thorns under every step. A twisting, manic thing with shrill demands; this isn't alive, this isn't a life, this isn't, and the urge to scream or laugh or run or bleed into the sand for the sake of feeling it.
Most of the time he watched the sea; peaceful, giving no hint of his slow slipping toward that unfathomable ledge.
It was a sluggish feeling, he told himself one morning, like a humid heat. Something dull tugging at the edges of the soul, cajoling; wouldn't it be nice to just sleep? Wouldn't you feel better, feeling nothing at all?
But the shifts were constant.
Another evening the feeling was sharp like thorns under every step. A twisting, manic thing with shrill demands; this isn't alive, this isn't a life, this isn't, and the urge to scream or laugh or run or bleed into the sand for the sake of feeling it.
Most of the time he watched the sea; peaceful, giving no hint of his slow slipping toward that unfathomable ledge.
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