I see the boat and my heart sinks. It was to signify hope of escape, but my eyes are drawn to the chains; the oars have gone, and the oarsman nowhere in sight. What has become of him, I wonder.
I can’t help but gaze at the church on the island, once another beacon, now looming threateningly, watchful and aloof. Its own kind safe within their cocoon. But I know there can be no sanctuary for me there even if I could escape this place of solitude. Isolation has made me fearful and lonely, and I study the distant houses for signs of life, knowing in my heart they too are empty.
The mists are descending again, and with them my gloom and depression. How I long for the days when the sight of the island ferryboat buoyed me up, the church lifted my spirits, the people in the village comforted me.
I wish I’d never left now, never tried to find sanctuary, and wish I was there with the decay and the anger, the rules and the fools. But at least here I’m safe from that disease, that cancerous growth that has marked all others, diseasing their minds so that they squabble and fight endlessly over clothes and gadgets, and other ephemera.
At least here I have my lonely self, my ‘me’, even though there is nobody else here on my island to share my thoughts with.
No-one but you, at least I have you…
Written by Steve Dillon