A writer is stranded in the ocean. On a nameless island the size of his book. Some times the sea is kind. Her waves glitter in the sun like a bright smile, and the water wears the colors from the reef below like a dress. The sea pulls her hand back and lets the writer rest. But the sea is like the writer, and while she has respite, most of the time there is a storm of confusion. The sea frowns, and her mouth curves into the air. The water rises and covers the island. Her tears mimic the writer tears in one way, pain. She fails her hands in anger, and hits the writer. The sea doesn’t notice what she does to the writer, too distracted by her misery. But the writer is the same way. He leaves himself stranded. His only possession is his book, but the storm wipes the ink away. The writer doesn’t know his own story, and can only listen to the stories of the wind. The wind who is stranded on the same piece of land. The wind who carries his own sobs, and blue he tries to cover the sound with. As the sea feasters the storm and as the wind becomes louder with each breath, the writer finds the name of the island. Sanity.
(If you couldn’t tell this is about ranboo in limbo)
