There is an island far away. It floats, alone, like a mirage, out on the ocean; a jewel, painted with bright colours. Lush grass and golden beaches, high, snow-tipped mountains and deep valleys gush with foaming rivers. Exotic birds with gorgeous plumage flock in the tall trees of its mighty forests. Majestic beasts roam, unfettered, across the plains.
People live there. They are not strange, but they seem…charmed. They have a glow about them, a sparkle that strikes the green flame of envy in the hearts of observers, even as they want to reach out to touch them, to transfer something of their blush of good fortune to themselves.
Around the island, the sea is ever changing. Sometimes it is bright blue, shallow and rippling, darted by luminous fish. Othertimes the water-chatter changes. Waves do not tumble; instead they roll and crash, grey and forbidding. They rumble.
Despite its distance, the island beckons; it sings a siren song and many mariners set sail in pursuit of its glories. In mighty warships and tattered rafts they attempt the journey. A few set their feet upon the crystal sand. Most do not.
And those who do, those recipients of aspiration from those of us out on the sea in our tiny, brave ships, they find to their dismay that their stay can not be long, that they too, despite their achievement, must leave as they discover the short term let on their residency. Upon departure they must drink from the river that feeds the ocean, that gives the sea the salt tang of tears.
They too must taste the grief for the island that never was, of hopes unrealised, or truths uncovered. Of dreams dashed. The island of lost things.