Return to Cozy Island

On a day in late July, my boat sank. I swam until I reached the shores of a deserted island. In the days that followed, broken pieces of wood touched those same banks. Perhaps some of them were survivors of the shipwreck. I touched them and heard stories—the voice of the sea, the backwash on the shoreline.

I began to re-evaluate the rush to recreate a civilized society as it is understood today; a rush that had initially defeated me. Restlessness was replaced by waiting, and within me, I started to cultivate a garden among the fruits of the sea. Every day, a small progress marked a new order, and I began to define growth even in those moments when nothing sprouted from the earth. Perseverance became part of my life, seeking to set boundaries to the frustration of failure.

I built my shelter out of paper, nourished it with words, and decorated it with photographs. At times, the sea becomes restless and destroys my roof; it drags me away and reminds me how tormented the existence is for those who have not yet reached the shore. And so, I am forced to swim once again, to return to that strip of beach. I find myself again, even if I don’t always find the same island.