I am an Island, a rock, in the middle of a raging sea. Waves crash angrily at my shores, but the inland is protected by tall weathered trees. In the very center of my island there is a patch of delicate wild flowers. Blue, purple, red, pink, white: flowers of every colour swaying gently in the breeze.
On quiet days you can hear the flowers sing. When the winds are calm and the land is peaceful, they sing their happy song. Their voices soar upwards; up high above the towering trees. A beautiful whisper flies amoung the birds overhead and echos across the sea.
The song has been heard by a lonely man lost at sea. Salvation he thinks; finally he has found his way. He paddles his raft with all the might he has left. His aching bones scream with each stroke, but he can’t give up. In the distance he see’s it. LAND. Weakness brings him to his knees, but he doesn’t give up. Using his hands to paddle, he fights agains the heat of the sun and reaches shore. His feet are unsteady as he touches land for the first time in days? weeks? months? He doesn’t know.
He races across the beach towards the trees. He needs shelter from the sun. In the forest he finds a small creek. He looks like a wounded bird hunkered over the small stream of water. He drinks. Drinks until his stomach is full, and he feels life return to his body. To his left he sees a bush of berries. Bright red juicy berries. He reaches for one and puts it in his mouth. His whole body shutters at the sensation of food finding his stomach. He eats. Night comes and the air is cool. He nestles himself up next to a fallen log, and closes his weary eyes. He sleeps. He sleeps with thousands of brightly shining stars above him. In the morning he wakes and he feels strong. He has taken what he needs from this land to regain his strength, but he wants more.
The ground beneath his feet feels sturdy and solid. He looks around and wonders which direction to take when he hears something. It’s music. The music that brought him hear. It’s so beautiful; he must find it. The voices lead the way, as he walks through unchartered gound. Louder and louder the voices become… he’s close. So close he can feel the vibrations of song run through him. He picks up his pace and soon he is running. The music fills him and makes him feel alive, but suddenly it stops. Silence; deadening silence. The trees stop swaying, and he is stopped in his tracks. He looks down. Under his dirty cracked feet is a patch of wild flowers. Each one broken by the weight of his body. As he stands in the center of the island, the trees begin to shed their leaves. The winds pick up and waves crash against the shores. A storm hits the island with fury, destroying all in it’s path. No more creek, no more berries, no more shelter. The sea rages and sends one last wave across the land. The man is swollowed up and taken out to sea never to be seen again.
The beaten island looks dead and barren, but as the storm subsides and the winds become silent, something happens. Small buds sprout from the trees and the earth begins to dry. A small stream of water trickles down the remains of the creeks bed, and in the center of it all, under the coldness of the dirt is a seed. A single, lonely seed.