This is no calm before the storm. This feels more like the calm after the storm. The air is fresh, silent, almost otherworldly. Where once the horizon was alive with traffic and visitors aplenty with tales to share, now there is only a void.
On occasion I stroll along the cool white sand and down to the water's edge, my eyes staring fixedly out to the distant horizon. Is it hope? Is it foolishness? Or is it just reflection on better times for this island of mine?
So why do I write still? A voice in the emptiness. I suppose it is my way of keeping a fire burning on the sandy shore, hoping that maybe one day a passing ship might be drawn to it, and investigate. It is, I suppose, my message in a bottle. Where it lands, if at all, I just don't know, but the thought of "What if?" is enough to keep my hopes up.
So many other islands around me have succumbed to the ocean and now lie lost beneath its depths. A few still remain, but like all things, it is only a matter of time. Until that day, I choose to walk my island, patrol its shores, and keep it in good working order. But most of all, I'll keep my beach fire burning. Just in case.
Sit on the soft white sands next to my fire, as it crackles softly and the last embers rise into the dusky sky. Let Ólafur Arnalds – ‘Particles’ feat. Nanna Bryndis Hilmarsdottir wash over you, carrying the quiet of the shore, the patience of the tide… and the thought that, perhaps, someone, somewhere, might still hear this message.