I don't live on an island of
physical dimension, though
I have known islands. My apartment is an island, as is my car,
my job, my small group of friends. Actually, I have only one friend here with me, but she too is on her own island. The other island of friends is up north,
in the DC area. They are visiting each other now, one couple with their kids and another
soon to be married.
There is no one but me on my island, hasn't been for years. It's not something I complain about or mourn over, just something that happened, something you don't see until you've been in it long enough to be able to look at it from the outside, above it, like a topographical aerial photo. I can see my island, and it comforts me to know that it is mine. I created it, sectioned off in flat land and trees, mapped its water and sewage lines, gathered its sources of energy. Declared its borders and created its laws, as well as the exceptions to those laws.
I have complete control on it, or so I'd like to think. No one can usurp me as ruler, and no one will rise up to challenge its condition, since there is no one else here. I don't let anyone on it, but I haven't had a hard time keeping people away, since most people don't even know it's there, meaning that they aren't aware that I'm on the island.
People I come into contact with do not know where I come to at night; few of them have even seen the address, but some of the people at work have driven my car. They listen to whatever's in my tape deck or turn it off if they don't like it. Most people throw the pillow I use in the back seat because their legs are longer, or they lean the seat back. They use it to run errands, do minor banking, buy beer for the crew on Friday afternoons. No one forgets what my car looks like, and those who have seen it, could never mistake my apartment for any other place.
I didn't always live on an island. One time, my home was everyone's island, everyone I knew. After that, I shared my island with a few roommates, but it was always their island or mine first, and someone was always on someone else's turf. It was one of those unspoken things you walked around, you respected.
It's seems a silly thing indeed to peer out the window of my island and long for people to come over, to visit, when I've worked so hard to build it just so. Everything centered around my needs, everything practical and not too drab, not too bright. Looking back, I have a hard time remembering why I created this island at all, but assume it was for a good reason and let it go at that.