An Island.

I feel like an island, surrounded by the public sea. I look around, searching for familiar faces, but all I feel is the uncommunicative static of broken technology. Alone. The lovely aloneness of the mind-grazing hermit. Swaddled in rags; strained with stains of experience.

A white bird cries far overhead. Its lusty song enraptures. I whip my head upward, neck and eyes search for its gliding form, but it is nowhere to be found.

The white bird had eluded my very hungry, very blind eyes. I'd heard birds sing many times before. But in my mental isolation it sounded like the blaring trumpet of heaven.

I lower my head in self-pity-and berate myself for it. Self-pity is the worst sort of egoistic company. It flickers with false beauty. Pride alights like gasoline when the match of self-pity is struck. It burns too fast to satisfy.

The best sort of egoistic company is expressive fulfillment-the outpouring of one’s soul in some expressive activity. It may be found in art, sex, literature, athletics, etc. That which suits the individual’s proclivity becomes the most effective band-aid. Let the cuts heal beneath its soothing and protective cover.