In light of recent posts on flirting and dating and relationships and whatnot, I thought I would sum it up in an amusing analogy as it pertains to myself, I hope you realise this was written with tongue firmly planted in cheek, which is to say it is meant to be vaguely amusing while having a ring of truth to it LOL
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I believe the saying no man is an island is very apt but only for the guy that initially said it to a room full of adoring fans, the truth is that every man is an island but you have to chose how populated you let the island become.
Now, pushing that analogy a tiny bit further we see a lot of people turning their island into a popular resort with swimming pools and pleasure cruises and women in bikinis/ men in speedos, while some go the other route, they allow brave seafaring types to discover the hidden beauty on the island and they live blissfully content in their solitude.
Of course there are some people that are the sort of island where only a lone shipwreck survivor will gratefully wash ashore on, usually when they are at the end of their tether on a cruel sea, they will slowly eek out a living on this lonely island over many long and hard fought years until a flimsy symbiosis is formed and the hope of rescue is kindled each night around a roaring signal fire...
Aaaaand...
Then there's me, it seems I am that island, yes, the one the locals fear and dread to speak its name, the one where strange animals have been thought to inhabit the thick and tangled jungles, where awe inspiring and often fearful cries as well as low moans or rumblings can be heard by the fishermen who have inadvertently drifted a little too close.
I am the island that is surrounded by mystery and shrouded in fog for most of the year but when the view clears, great and terrible crags are seen jutting painfully up from the waters surrounding its high impenetrable cliff lined coast, and where this island has relinquished valuable space a tiny beach or two has valiantly struggled to burst forth, the sand made from razor sharp coral and shell grit that the mighty ocean has reluctantly belched forth from its darkest maw, and the untouched beach sits silent in the sun forever more.
Of course the waters surrounding the island invite no onlookers to venture near as they constantly roil and close in upon themselves as though the tumultuous waves are trying desperately to devour one another, and they boil from their further fury that the contest is never ending. These self same waters, as violent and treacherous as they may be, are begrudgingly home to some of the most hideous and foul, misshapen creatures ever aborted by a horrified mother nature, these creatures brought forth of torment and sorrow, that some claim to be the last vestiges of lost souls whose ships founder on the rocks of despair that girt the tiny island, they battle fiercely for control of the unpalatable and meagre food sourced on and around the islands uninviting perimeter, and they will gleefully take to it's death any living human contemptuous enough of danger to venture into the mouth of what is widely believed to be the only known place where hell on earth is to actually be found.
Although, strangely, I can still get the papers delivered, and Mr. Whippy does drive his ice cream van around the island every summer, so things may not actually be all that bleak after all ; ]
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I believe the saying no man is an island is very apt but only for the guy that initially said it to a room full of adoring fans, the truth is that every man is an island but you have to chose how populated you let the island become.
Now, pushing that analogy a tiny bit further we see a lot of people turning their island into a popular resort with swimming pools and pleasure cruises and women in bikinis/ men in speedos, while some go the other route, they allow brave seafaring types to discover the hidden beauty on the island and they live blissfully content in their solitude.
Of course there are some people that are the sort of island where only a lone shipwreck survivor will gratefully wash ashore on, usually when they are at the end of their tether on a cruel sea, they will slowly eek out a living on this lonely island over many long and hard fought years until a flimsy symbiosis is formed and the hope of rescue is kindled each night around a roaring signal fire...
Aaaaand...
Then there's me, it seems I am that island, yes, the one the locals fear and dread to speak its name, the one where strange animals have been thought to inhabit the thick and tangled jungles, where awe inspiring and often fearful cries as well as low moans or rumblings can be heard by the fishermen who have inadvertently drifted a little too close.
I am the island that is surrounded by mystery and shrouded in fog for most of the year but when the view clears, great and terrible crags are seen jutting painfully up from the waters surrounding its high impenetrable cliff lined coast, and where this island has relinquished valuable space a tiny beach or two has valiantly struggled to burst forth, the sand made from razor sharp coral and shell grit that the mighty ocean has reluctantly belched forth from its darkest maw, and the untouched beach sits silent in the sun forever more.
Of course the waters surrounding the island invite no onlookers to venture near as they constantly roil and close in upon themselves as though the tumultuous waves are trying desperately to devour one another, and they boil from their further fury that the contest is never ending. These self same waters, as violent and treacherous as they may be, are begrudgingly home to some of the most hideous and foul, misshapen creatures ever aborted by a horrified mother nature, these creatures brought forth of torment and sorrow, that some claim to be the last vestiges of lost souls whose ships founder on the rocks of despair that girt the tiny island, they battle fiercely for control of the unpalatable and meagre food sourced on and around the islands uninviting perimeter, and they will gleefully take to it's death any living human contemptuous enough of danger to venture into the mouth of what is widely believed to be the only known place where hell on earth is to actually be found.
Although, strangely, I can still get the papers delivered, and Mr. Whippy does drive his ice cream van around the island every summer, so things may not actually be all that bleak after all ; ]
