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215 pages, Kindle Edition
Published August 3, 2023
I have told you already that I had no sense of the world outside the archipelago. The world was our island. The world was our square. It was the alleyways above the fishing dock, Mother's fingers stroking our hair, the black rocks on the beach, the yellow church, the baker's blue shop. Now a picture of life beyond the archipelago was forming. It was a composite of those black-and-white images, prisoners from the mainland, the swan people with the feathered necks that the shipmaster secretly met. You must understand: I had never left our island. Had never even seen it from the outside on a boat. Mother had strictly forbidden us from stepping onto any sea vessel.
I have read over these pages. It is not coming out how I intended at all. Writing is like sleeping; you loosen the grip on your consciousness and suddenly old friends and foes appear in the dark. A vaguely familiar face emerges from obscurity and announces its unexpected importance in your life. A memory you may have wished to forget rounds a corner and waves its hand. Subjects to which one has given little thought in daylight hours come up recurrently. I have known writing to be magnetic, pulling me in directions I have not willingly wanted to go. I have spent the last twenty years planning the precise route of my travels, and it is difficult to surrender to such an unknowable course.
Would you like to go back?
I don't think so..
You are happy here?
It is all that I know.
This is your island?
Not at all.