The island is small, barely enough for a single soul. Around its perimeter, water stretches so far that sky and sea blur into one aching horizon. The palm tree’s fronds sway in a restless wind, their movement the only sign of life. Beneath its shade sits a figure, knees drawn to chest, heart heavy with a wild, unused passion that feels like both a blessing and a curse.
The Wanderer clenches their fists, the weight of longing pressing in. "God... such a passion in my heart. But what’s the point of having it so deep within me when it has no use?" The words are barely audible, stolen by the wind, yet the ache behind them is unmistakable. Each question echoes, reverberating in the vast emptiness: a hammer never wielded, a love unshared, tears unseen. The pain stings, sharp as salt in an open wound.
The figure’s face contorts, wrestling with the shadows behind their eyes. "There’s no monster behind my mask... I’m not evil. So why does my mean side break out like fire when I swore there were no monsters left in this cave?" The snake circles, fangs bared, a silent challenge. The Wanderer meets its gaze, refusing to flinch. "I wrestle with the snake. I don’t give in... but I can’t win." The struggle is silent, but the battle rages within.
The Wanderer shivers as the wind rises, the salt air sharp on their tongue. "I love the people... but their sin, their chains—they push me away— from them, from You, from truth." The ocean’s roar grows louder, a symphony of sorrow and hope. "I can’t dive into this ocean—not when it's filled with centuries of blood, millennia of tears." The sun, radiant and unforgiving, burns through the cloud cover, its light both balm and torment.
"I laugh... while another dies on the inside. I fight to keep my soul fed in this island prison, but the pain is too high, the soreness too much." The Wanderer’s arms tremble, as if from holding too much sorrow for too long. "Sometimes I wonder—how fast could these legs run if there were no sky... no gravity... no limit? But my feet stay bound to earth’s heavy heart." The darkness presses in, but the embers of resilience remain.
The Wanderer lifts their face to the stars, letting hope whisper through the cracks of numbness. "And yet—still... behind the hopelessness, hope lingers. It whispers. Sometimes I feel it. That maybe... just maybe... I’m not done yet. That I can still fight. That I can still stand. Wrestle the snake... again and again." The ocean, eternal and vast, now sings a softer song—one of survival and the stubborn ember of faith.
The Wanderer breathes deeply, the pain still present, but something gentler blooming underneath. "God— I’m numb. The pain? Gone. But it stole my joy, drained my strength, left me cold. Isolated on this lonely island. One day, your pain, your scars—they’ll heal. But until then... my smile will be forged from joy, with a taste of sorrow dripping behind the scenes." The island is still alone, but hope is no longer a stranger. "God... I’m still here. I still hope. Still hurting. Still yours."
