The colour of desolation

I want my life to be a novel. A welcomed escape for others, a candle in the dark to read pages from my formidable life under. A different narrative that lies nestled in a shelf far away to deter those with poor imagination who’d spoil it with crumbs and marmalade smeared across the pages read in self-indulgence, but not too far for the minds thirsting for a change of mental scenery. An island life. A story about how I started out as a castaway in the remoteness and tried to erase the distance by burying myself in despair at not finding anyone who was searching for me. But how it was a divine gift, this fertile and lush island that just needed me to accept that this was home now. I had to accept that I wasn’t a castaway, I wasn’t stranded any more than I was stranded on earth by virtue of being given life. If anything, the isolation brought me closer to Allaah and the purpose He’d intended for me. I was a castaway when I was in the wrong state of mind and with the wrong crowd.

A story about finding right when you thought you were lost.

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