A man sits alone in the sand making a crevice with his arse that perfectly fitted the dimensions of his arse. Everything seems comfortable, the weather warm the sea calm and even his mind had serenity, a serenity caused by being alone, alone on a desert island.

This isolation could not last for much longer, a wave came like a sperm and deposited a bottle with paper in it. With finger and fore-finger he teased some paper from the bottle and read this:

“It came to me the other day as I was sitting listlessly frightened on my chair: what a waste yet again. It’s disconcerting, I’m thinking, existence feels impossible to me, absurd and at the same time natural. What else can I compare it to? What would non-existence be like? This way of thinking leads to death, I didn’t tell myself, instead I thought, romantically: existence = absurdity, therefore death = non-existence.

The only problem, I decided, was that nothing ever stays the same for me. I wasn’t happy with my equation and my face tingled with a new thought, what if death was absurd too? Soon I couldn’t stop the thoughts: Does anything ever exist? Does my life have to be absurd? Why does nothing ever stay the same? Does any of this matter if you wish to live a rational life?

Doubt convulsed all over me, I sat and swung my arms just so I knew they were there, but I couldn’t escape them even if I wanted to. I close my eyes and the image of me running away from my arms swam before me, the panic spreading over my face as I realised my arms were helping me to run. I open my eyes and feel my body before me. I wonder just where my body is, I can see it, feel it even, but where is it? I can never see myself properly.

I got out of my chair and walk over to the mirror, except I move as though in a dream. I stand and look at my reflection, it seemed three dimensional but it is still only an image. My mind raced, where am I? it asked. I wish I was someone else but the horror was that I would still have the same problem. I cannot locate myself and even though I am everything real and nothing unreal, I still don’t know who I am.

Am I just depressed?”

*

The man moved in the sand destroying the crevice and creating a jagged swish of lumpy sand where his arse was planted. “What is this shit?”, he said aloud being more than used to talking alone, to himself and his enormous beard. Wait, there’s more, he harrumphed.

“There are too many questions. It fatigues me and for the moment I can only sit and stare. How wonderful!

But nothing stays the same. I think again and I think about my inability to do anything. I am nothing! I feel the irony, I can’t think of nothing for long even though I am nothing. Everyday the prospect of doing things of going out into the world fills me with dread. When I awake in the morning , when I slowly awake in the afternoon, getting out of bed is so hard. I am comfortable in my bed, it is the one place where doing nothing is acceptable (no sex for me), my bed is shaped around me. Yet, I tell myself, I must do something.

My life, in retrospect is so compartmentalised. Year in year out I never stick to any plan of action, except that I will do nothing. I try to fill the void with attempts of doing. Maybe, I tell myself, I could join this or go there, even take up a hobby so I could meet other people. Then my mind turns to nothing and it’s all lost, again.

Ach! Idealistic bullshit, I lie to myself. I get a headache just thinking about it all.”

*

What a sad sounding fucker, the man chuckles to himself. Why does he feel alone when he’s surrounded by life and culture, streets and sounds? If only he knew. Then the man paused, thinking, will my latest catch be dry cured by now? He asked himself. He turned over the crumpled page and carried on reading.

“I was kicking through the dust and debris of my squalid bedsit and came across a blue journal. I dimly remember that one time I tried to write poetry. I felt sick on opening the pages.

Sitting around the house
all day
can be very very boring
I didn’t mean to
but I’ve become very very lazy.

I should get that old job back again
I should try
it would be good for me to work
and move
good for my health and well-being
Get MOTIVATED!!!

What the fuck? This is shit, really embarrassing. How old was I when I did that? Trying to push it from my mind, it was only two years ago.

I fling the journal across the room, sit staring into space, arms dangling by my side. I try to think of nothing but all I can think about are the soul destroying jobs I’ve had in the past serving annoying people, people who look like ghouls scrambling and grabbing at stuff they don’t really need. And for what? So management and shareholders can make more money that they know not what to do with. Self-respect is synonymous with poverty. This is what nothing comes to.”

*

The man’s laughter slowly fades into the empty sea before him. ‘This kid’s really ill, he needs help,’ he says to himself. Getting up from the hot sand he retreats to his small shelter made from drift wood and other materials he scrambled from the island he was on. The fish he had caught were almost dry cured over the low fire he had made. Sitting down on a log he munched on a fish while turning the last page.

“Another day, same chair, same arms dangling. I see in the corner the blue journal I threw the other day and then just beside it I notice a bicycle, dusty and with flat tires hidden with an old sheet half covering it. I find a tire pump in a draw and pump up the tires, easily the most active I’ve been in ages. The sun shines outside, it’s summer.

I think of going for a ride. It’s a heavy thought as I go through all of the shit that might happen. Fuck it, I think I’m going to open the door.

Gently turning the handle the door slowly opens, the bike that was balanced on my arse slips to the floor with a louder noise than I expected. I flinch, swear and pick the bike up. There is no one in the hall so my embarrassment I hold alone. I awkwardly wheel the bike out while closing the door. I have my keys, I think, I think.

Suddenly a door two doors from mine opens with a flourish and a girl breezes out turning towards me. My heart races and sweat was forming on my forehead, I didn’t know where to look. She walks to me, I start to panic thinking what will I say if she talks to me? But she starts to veer to my left heading for the corridor that leads to the washing room. I take a deep breath, she smiles at me as she passes and my front bike wheel seems to have a life of it’s own as it volts forward and embeds itself between the girl’s moving legs, trapped.

I fluster, apologising, sorry, so sorry I’m saying but she just laughs with a light sweet laugh saying it’s ok, not to worry, as she carries on towards the washing room.

I, ashen faced, turn back into my room, throwing the bike to the floor and collapse into my chair, arms dangling. It starts to rain outside.”

*

The man on the island finishes the last of his fish and slowly rolls the paper back into it’s bottle. He gets up with thought in his face debating whether to try that fishing spot again, the sun was setting and there could be some lazy fish for the taking. Dropping the bottle into the sand by his nearly dead fire, enough embers left to rekindle it later, he walks off towards the blue ocean.