Ilha do Sal, Cape Verde.
February 2017.
Waves periodically crash against the black rocky shores of Calheta Funda.
I shift a little in the cave where I lie- the ground is hard and interspersed with pointed edges; I am shifting to minimize my discomfort.
[What song was I playing?]
There is a hole in the roof of the cave. I stretch my right hand outwards through it. Maybe cellular reception will be substantially better outside.
Waves periodically crash against the black rocky shores of Calheta Funda.
I am thoroughly heartbroken.
There are a number of unattended messages on my phone. A number of people wish to interact.
I do not want to talk to them. I do not want to talk to anybody.
I miss my girlfriend.
I’m scrolling through her pictures again. This is probably where I expend an inordinate proportion of my internet data budget- scrolling through pictures.
I miss my girlfriend.
It feels like I have the emotional space to care for very little else. People wise? Nobody. I do not feel like I have any room to spare. The entirety of my emotional insides feel thoroughly wounded.
I was watching the waves earlier in the afternoon. The rippling crest of each wave looked like a troop of glittering translucent horses, each racing all of the others-determined to reach the shore first.
The wave crest had layers of these ripples- these horses. And every few seconds, a new layer of water horselets would clamber over the row preceding it.
I found it fascinating.
Yes, cellular reception is indeed better outside the cave. I withdraw my arm. The page on the screen is done loading.
I think back to a number of popular scary stories I used to hear people tell when I was younger. In Nigeria. Superstitious stories. Stories about mermaids that transformed themselves into beautiful women, with the intention of wreaking havoc on the lives of men.
And apparently being alone right next to the sea at night had its caveats, because these very dangerous women could emerge at anytime to accost one.
I have been sleeping in this cave for a number of days. No maleficent mermaid has come to demand rent from me, not yet.
Psht. Nigerian superstitions.
The sound of the waves is calming once you get used to it. It’s very easy to learn to see the waves as your friend- the ocean as your bosom companion on your solitary, amply-apprehension-inducing expedition.
Bosom companion my foot. I got back from the city the other day and virtually all of my food supplies were gone. One half of my pair of skateboarding shoes. The entire pair of the Italian shoes- the ones I only ever wore like once- with the suit in San Francisco.
I searched and searched in vain.
Bosom companion my foot.
Please make calming soothing sounds as much as you want, just don’t touch me or my things ever again.
—
I very recently learnt of the term “Shingle beach”. It’s a beach consisting of rocks- smoothed and rounded by progressive weathering by the waves, in lieu of sand. I did not know that before.
“Shingle beach”. Hah.
—
I shift a little in the cave.
I have very little money left. I’ve inserted discreet job-hunting into my island exploration bucket list.
Virtuality the entire rectitude of my future plans depends on some research I am conducting- which in turn is presently typified by a piece of computer code I am working on.
A piece I have been working on for more than a month now.
I wonder what sort of an impression a person who had very little experience with technology, would have of my current situation.
Like, hey. Hey, look at me. I am pushing a number of black buttons on this silver piece of metal. Is there some sort of reason to my pushing these buttons? Some sort of order? Some sort of rationality?
Who knows?
The meaning is only known to me. I believe I know what I am doing. Against all of the scaldingly adversarial social currents. To you I might as well be a monkey at a piano.
And yes. Here I am- on this island where I know absolutely no one- in this country within which I know absolutely no one personally. and my entire future and my entire life is reliant on the sensibility of all of these my disconcertingly abstruse endeavours.
Hah.
Goodluck to me.
Good good, luck to me.
I am playing a metal song I just downloaded. I’m not particularly sure what the singer is saying. I think the volume is too high.
But it’s Metal. There is really no such thing as the volume being to high, is there.
I am outside the cave now. I am staring into the stars.
I hear people’s voices in my head. People I know- people I used to know. I can hear them talking. Not to me, no. About me. I can hear these people talking about me. I am not sure what it means.
You know how feel when someone you hold in some sort of regard, gives you a compliment? Yeah? Good?
This is like that, but the other way round. Like I feel a particular way, and then in my head I hear these people saying things about me, that usually would inspire that sort of a feeling.
Like inverted ethereal complimenting. I am not really sure what it means, or what purpose it serves- not really.
The Metal song is still playing.
Waves periodically crash against the black rocky shores of Calheta Funda.
The moon is floating in the sky, entirely immersed in adoring its glamorous reflection in the black waving water.
I am thoroughly heartbroken.
Crystal black sky.
Stars.
The Metal song is still playing.
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