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He lived his life on a lonely island. He liked it that way. He was happy to be alone - surrounded only by dry sand and an uncrossable sea.
It happened suddenly; the white sand swirling through the air, the dull grey waves building and towering and crashing. He did not plan for this enslaught of emotions; this crushing intensity and sudden displacement. He did not plan for this. The stark, decaying wreckage of a ship he'd sailed long ago shifted and stirred on the tumultuous shores of his lonely island; sending a sharp splinter of memory through his chest. He made his way, caution and hesitance filling his gait, step by step through the flurrying sand and the slowly settling sea.
One foot into the water, a current, a pull; expected to drag him closer to the rotting wreckage before him. A suffocating, consuming sensation flooded him as he was forced further from his island, away from the familiar yet rancid stench of that damaged old ship, and further into stormy grey depths.
The grip arround him was tight and immovable. He stopped fighting as he began to accept his certain fate - he was falling and tumbling and thrashing beneath the monochromatic mountains that towered above him and then it hit him. It hit him like a freight train - a contrasting blanket of serenity washed over him. He opened his tired eyes - unsure of when they had fallen tightly shut - and was pulled down deeper, closer to a myriad of colour swirling and turning.
The luscious greens and spots of gold, the electric blues and hardly noticable dashes of chocolately brown, they pulled him closer to the darkening eye at the centre of this vivid storm. He spun and twirled and floated through the symphony of colour thrown into his lonely, grey world. He needed more. The calm had left him - evaporated wholely from his body as he craved more and more of this - more colour, more life, more untainted joy. He was dragging himself - willing his legs kick through cold, unknown waters - closer to the black-as-night eye of the storm; closer to More. He had fallen before he'd known; hit once again with that serenity before his dazed eyes could follow his descent.
He was happy - happy to be lost in a world of darkness illuminated by streaks of blinding colour and explosions of intrigue, mischeif, that painted his peripherals. The calmness settled, then, deep within his bones, engraved itself into his soul as another sensation, a realisation perhaps - struck him hard in the chest. He realised, perhaps solemnly as he acknowledged his situation, that he could never escape this lifelong cell he'd pulled himself into - willing to suffer any blow he was dealt just to feel More. It struck him harder, that dreadful, lovely bludgeoning on his chest, as he felt himself learn that he did not desire to leave. This place he had found was inescapable and yet, he failed to feel trapped.
He did not plan for this; that lonely man on his lonely island. He did not plan to leave that which he knew, could predict, or that which he never before had longed to leave. Now, it seemed impossible to return. Even if he could will himself to claw free of this lively prison, he could never return to his lonely, empty island to feel more alone and lost than he would've thought possible.
His head began to spin, the bright lights dashing around, muddling his thoughts and constricting his breath in a way he didn't understand. He did not plan for this; for this panic to flood past the calmness in his soul and taint the warmth within his veins as they froze into rivers of ice. Rigamortis began to settle over his head like a cloud as he tensed and panicked - still unsure of why. He did not want to leave. The pounding and growling in his head grew louder - angrier. His arms, seemingly reanimated yet out of his control, began to claw and drag - the waves gripped him tight once again. Higher and higher he was pulled, his body willing to fly away as his mind begged to fight; begged to stay.
Gasping. Coughing. Lungs screaming for any air they could hold. His chest burned - the beating he took began to ache tremendously. Yet he still craved to be dragged back in, to see and understand the ideas and colours behind that blackened centre. The ocean's arms circled him - gripping his waist in a way that began to comfort, and dragged him further. He could see it, in the distance, his lonely island sinking into the shades of grey as he was deposited on a new shore. This unexplored land of promised adventure and colour breathed clean air and life into his damaged lungs.
That tight panic latched into his gut began to loosen; to let go. A deep breath - salted air flooded his lungs as the calmness flared in his soul. New sand on a new shore - golden and warm. Perhaps he could get used to this, perhaps it wasn't the kracken his mind had built it to be in the time that lead him here.
He did not plan for this, but that was okay. A warm, familiarly large hand on his shoulder, a grounding touch to his settling form. He opened his eyes, unsure of when they'd fallen shut, and stared back into those eyes he loved so deeply to be lost in. The electric blues and luscious greens dashed with gold - and that beautiful black window in the centre giving view to all the wonderful thoughts hidden behind. He loved so much to fall into those whirlpools staring through him - reading him like a well-loved book. That warm grin hugged around his heart and the little gap between his front teeth tugged a smile at the corners of Oscar's mouth.
He did not plan to fall in love, but perhaps he could get used to this.