Once, I was in love with a man who lived on an island. Many things were impossible for him, like getting through the day without saying "I can't." Like asking for help or saying how he felt. I would ask him if he liked this island, this far off land in the middle of the sea, and he would say, "it is where I have always been, I can't imagine living anywhere else." The crazy thing was, I was willing to travel to the island. By raft, plane, breast stroke. I would have left all of my friends and my family and I would've stayed with him on the island, without even a plan of what I could do with myself there, if he would have had me. I thought, because he lived on an island and I was from the shore, and we both knew of the aching for the open waters, that it would work. That we could make it.
But of course you can see that I am now in the smoggy plains of the city, not the island with this man. Because, if you are trying to reach an island and there is no lighthouse or flare or ocean current to lead you in to shore, if there is no dock, no bridge and no fortress, you'll eventually have to turn around, come up for air, dry off. Some islands can't see that it's not impossible to be reached.