Thunderstorm

There is a thunderstorm here, rain is coming down in sheets. The grass roof of my hut does not keep out all of the rain, some of it is dripping down. I have a blanket around me to keep myself warm as it has gotten a bit chilly because of the dampness and the wind. The waves are crashing on the beach, and against the rocks, it is almost as loud as the thunder itself. Thunderstorms are usually brief and the sun comes out and dries everything up after. I wonder what the rainy season is like.

The sandcastle I made on the beach has been totally destroyed.

My Island

On my island it is always hot and humid, or warm and humid at the very least, but with the continuous breezes off the ocean, one does not notice the heat so much. There is air here, plenty of it, tinged with the scent of salt, decayed seaweed and marine-life. I walk the beach and listen to the music of the waves rolling in, the gulls shrieking overhead, the breeze blowing in my ears, the sound of my feet on the sand... there is no other music here, except the sound of my own voice.

I do not pretend to sing well, but I sing. There is noone else to hear me anyway. If I had someone else to sing with, I would. There is no instrument more beautiful than the human voice. No orchestra of instruments invented by man sounds more lovely than a choir singing in perfect harmony.

Here, I am close to God. He speaks to me in the breeze, in the thunderstorm, in the butterfly flitting.

Here, there are no controversies, there is no war. There is no injustice, no false idealism, no consumerism, life is simple, I do not worry about the cares of the world. I am on level ground, I have not made it yet to climb the sole hill on this island, the result of an ancient volcano. Life has not taken me there yet. There is much to be done here, where I am