There are old things here. They aren’t in the way; there’s plenty of space. Artifacts from before all the plastics, all the electronics. They look interesting, but they don’t feel abandoned to the extent that I could feel comfortable looking through them.
When I found some momentum in cleaning, I dusted. Some moths were removed, some cobwebs. I handled things with respect.
Oh, the fear and uncertainty people have of thinking and choosing for themselves. The tuning out, numbing out, of the whispers and drumbeats of time running out on the unsustainable practices. The pressures to fit in, the hesitation to step off the hamster wheels.
I intend to draw and paint while I’m here. I want to write. Much of my time is being spent keeping warm, huddled under a blanket, hands wrapped around a mug of tea. I sink into the reverie. I can hear my own words.
We are going to do it differently this time. We don’t want to be seduced into becoming technology zombies, or to serve the material machines.
The silence is loud. I hear the echoes of what was said to me, and hold onto my memories of what was real.
Nature is so strong here on the isle. I sense my human frailty and insignificance. I also sense my power in the choices I make each moment, and in my movements towards sanity.
It’s worth the lack of productivity. There are few to see and judge. There’s no one asking, “Can you make money off this?”
We feel your attention and appreciation. We remember who you are.