The peninsula of meaning
I sat sipping out of my tiny cup of poison on this island of fifth. Scraps of unwanted paper littered the ground around the rock I was sitting on. Written on those sheets were half uncovered tales about love, betrayal, rage, success, miles of fantasy, and a desire to be something. Some of those pages were blank like the hollow of my heart. Stripes of fading pink hues stretched across the sky as if trying to spread its beauty everywhere. Waves licked sand like they were trying to taste test the hottest beverage around. You would think scenery like this would be a wonderland to most people but to me it was like a wasteland for the discarded.
Trees acted like guards covering every part of the island without fail. Why did they sail me all the way here to this island only occupied by snakes, fish, birds, turtles, and snails? An exotic getaway my ass! I stretched my thin legs out with a huff. Writing has become a full on chore as if your mother nagged you all day to use your imagination on full blast till it bleeds. Words were my only company shrouding the sounds of birds chirping and hissing of slithering snakes. I guess it was better than being within the venomous snakes in society. I could trust the animals. They wouldn’t spread words weaving them intricately so there is no trace of a lie, and then stabbing you in the back to make your legs not want to lift. Animals only thought of survival. What did they need to eat? What did they yearn for? Where was home?
The pink tank top I was wearing was ridden with dirt, and grass stains from my travel to find this lovely crevice on the island. It was the only place I could just be letting my milky skinned hands rest on the cracks of the rock as sandy brown locks twisted in front of my face. They had said this was supposed to be a haven for writers but I could only see it as a wasteland of fifth like the streets of Boston. The cabin in the woods was built for famous writers who had paychecks in their pockets that extended further than the depths of the sea. It was disgusting. I hated sleeping in the fancey bed laced with red sheets, and soft blankets like it was meant for two people to make love so violently the bed would shake. It was just a grim reminder of how unattractive I am.
My shorts dangled off of me cutting mid-thigh. I managed to lose quite a bit of weight from meandering in the forest for a few days. I wasn’t sure if they were trying to test my will but considering a boat hasn’t come back in about three weeks I would be lucky not to paint the pants red like the bed soon. Well, if I couldn’t find the tampons fast enough.
They made a deal with me saying that I would have to stay on the most beautiful island as long as I had a novel written in sixth months. Ideally, I thought they meant they would let me spend five days here. The more I sit here staring at the darkening sky ...the more I realize how much I got stiffed. Hell...they probably were gonna leave me here like a unwanted toy. Each day was making more hollow as a writer due to the overbearing use of my imagination. I could resist to write but that was like trying to quit smoking cold turkey. It would hurt. However, I could not write the novel they wanted me to at the moment. My mind was judging, belittling, and challenging every idea that ever dusted it’s way upon my mind.
What is the meaning of being a writer when everything you write is already written? I had thousands of unofficially written manuscripts for stories just sitting in the library of the cabin. It seemed not many writers actually left with a manuscript from this place. What did they leave with? An empty soul? Regret? A realization that the hell of society fed us the greatest lies to place on paper?