Maybe I’m moving to an Island to become a better writer. To fill my days with something other than what I’ve experienced up to this point. Not to escape, but to discover. Isn’t that the point of life?

Maybe I’m moving to an Island to become a sand collector. Sand that will foster beautiful blown pieces of glass. Don’t you make blown glass from sand? Wouldn’t that be a kick-ass thing to put on a resume?

Maybe I’m moving to an Island to rip out parts of my soul and toss them into the ocean like a message in a bottle. Hoping that one day a complete stranger will discover the encapsulated sadness washed up on a foreign beach and heal parts of themselves.

Maybe I’m moving to an Island to make sense of my love addiction. Up until about a week ago I was in denial that I was a junkie…well, at least it’s not porn or cocaine.

Maybe I’m moving to an Island to discover what fun and reckless-abandon means for ME.

Maybe I’m moving to an Island to keep my fucking promises. Long ago a sense of adventure and discovery imprinted into my chest cavity and not acting on it was never an option.

Maybe I’m moving to an Island because why the fuck would I not?

Maybe moving to this Island will get me closer to that Orphanage in Cambodia. I don’t know exactly where or when, but my heart keeps tugging me in that direction.

Maybe I’m moving to an Island because I broke down and thrust into the Universe what it is that I wanted. Though what I wrote on my apartment wall that day in April looked a little different from what I’m about to travel to, I desired so deeply that it manifested.

And Maybe just maybe, I’m moving to an Island to lose myself completely…only to find her hidden between jagged rocks and salty sea water.

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