The fruit here is different. Pulpier.
Pinker flesh and a different shape. It fills, though. Keeps the
hunger at bay, I guess. For all the good that is.
The water's the same. The trees more
interesting than the fern-things. And the island is bigger. Much
bigger, I suspect. But not so big that the wailing cave isn't
constantly mocking me.
This island has trees large enough to
form a canopy. Large enough to hide the fog a little, for the lights
in the distance to disappear for a bit. It feels more like home than
the last place. But not much. It's still alien, still empty, still
pointless. My lungs fill and void, my heart pumps blood, my eyelids
blink, my jaw chews and my belly growls when I don't put fruit in it.
But there's nothing else. No-one to
talk to, nothing I can build, no way to write or draw or make any
kind of permanent mark. My nails peel and chip if I try to scratch
stone or wood. Even the little piles of tree bark I've managed to
collect seem to blow away in the night unless I sleep on top of them.
Nothing stays, except me and the place itself.
Without much resembling enthusiasm, I
start exploring this little world. The stone, the trees, the moss,
it all seems the same after only a few hours.
How do trees grow in stone? There is
no dirt, here, nothing for roots to dig into. I wonder if maybe they
come out the far side of the rock and dangle in the mist. Maybe they
aren't trees, only things that look like trees, act like trees,
remain still while I am watching and only seem to be there at all.
I don't think I actually talk with
them. In their direction, yes, but I don't really believe that any
of them are talking back. No, I don't believe that, even though I
can hear them. Even though they know everything that I know. Even
though they torment me with lies and fears and dreams and laughter.
No, I do not believe that I talk with
the trees. I am certain that I do not believe that I talk with the
trees.
I am quite certain that I no longer
know what anything is, anymore. I am quite certain that I no longer
see real things or hear real sounds. I am quite certain that the
earth beneath me is not what it seems to be.
I am also quite certain that I did not
pile this little stack of stones on the uttermost point of this
little island floating in the fog.
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