THE ISLAND

There is a place hidden beyond the ordinary. Forever elusive and constantly evolving, as if being shaped by the penetrating gazes of unseen observers. This is an island. It appears suddenly and vanishes just unexpectedly, dissolving itself into ephemeral timelessness. Just like words spoken through a dream, a hypnotic revelation, a semi-trance, or the steps of a sleepwalker. A shimmering space at the edge of consciousness where fragile and rooted matters merge into a muted but tenacious landscape melody. Everything here seems to interlace with no resistance. Cities and towns merge with fields, people melt into ocean, and eternal darkness mingles with eternal light.

It is not easy to envision what this place looks like, and who could portray it accurately. Hardly a casual tourist or an outside observer. Perhaps someone who has dwelled here for a lifetime, long ago, but suddenly saw things differently. As if through a veil woven from their own and collective memory; through a translucent fabric with a subtle pattern, that both complements and distorts reality.

Life and death on the island are neither opposites nor interrelated. Here, the usual perception of the journey from birth to demise doesn’t apply. Death is self-purposeful and self-sufficient - it exists separately from life, without acknowledging its presence. All symbols of vitality - mental and physical - are pushed beyond and replaced by appearances and disappearances, cyclically reproducing themselves in different forms.

The island is like a stopping point. Not heaven, not hell; perhaps a limbo. A boundary space, where the tangible meets the intangible. Some arrive here for mere moments, while others get stranded on its shores for a long time. Neither of them knows if they should delight or sorrow being here. Everyone drifts through ethereal landscapes like mist devoid of clear purpose or trajectory. They don’t know if the worst is behind them, if the best lies ahead; if it is the other way around or if everything is entirely different. Words like 'past', 'present' and 'future' have shed their meanings. There is only a strange, infinite expectation, lingering almost out of inertia. An unfounded yet enticing hope that glides over slightly trembling waves like the greenish ray of dawn and dusk, causing them to murmur amongst themselves, although their language has long been incomprehensible to anyone.