In the midst of the cool, dark, volatile, and unending sea, I was your island.

I was the sun warmed sand that cradled your shivering form.

I was the shade from the leaf canopy that gave shelter from the burning rays of the sun.

I was the dependable earth, upon which you could rest your head, and abandon the nightmares of interminable swimming.

I was the tree, from which you could source kindling to warm you from the frigid breath of the evening.

I was the fruit, which sustained you in your corporeal need.

All these I provided for you as if I had a choice.  They were yours to take as you saw fit.  I, the island, simply waited for your arrival.

But the sandy bed was not enough for your head, you wanted feathers, and cotton.

The shade was too volatile, and to stay in its protection, you had to shift and move too often.

The fruit was sustenance enough, but without variety. You craved palate stimulation.

So you felled the tree.

And from it you formed a vessel.

My leaves served as your sail.

And my fruit served as reserves as you shoved off from me.

I was left bare, desolate, and ravaged, but still, an island.

An island is but the pinnacle of a great mountain.

Humbly yours,

J