Welcome to the End of the World--Part 2

Day 5

  I haven’t felt much like baring my soul to my journal the past few days.  I have all these thoughts and ideas screaming to come out of my mind, but when I sit down to write I go blank.  Cooper has made living here a bit easier, though.  He’s been sleeping in the front of the house because I’m just not comfortable sleeping together yet.  I really appreciate how understanding and patient he is.  The way I see it is this:  if I have to be stranded on an island with one person for the rest of my life, I’m alright with it being Cooper. 

            At the end of day 2 we had finished unpacking and arranging everything in the house.  On day 3 Cooper and I planted some fruits and veggies that supposedly flourish in areas like this.  Yesterday we started exploring the island, and the scenery is absolutely breathtaking.

            Our government really knew what they were doing when they chose this as our destination.  It’s difficult to be depressed when life is this beautiful.  There are no signs of the infection here, nothing to be frightened of.  There is just Mother Nature and all the beauty that she offers.  I relish in the way the sunlight dances along the salty water and the way a gentle breeze soothes my soul.  The peace and tranquility this island offers has helped me keep a grip on my sanity and for that I am eternally grateful.

Day 13

            I think I’m going to break out my bottle of champagne tonight.  It belonged to my parents, and they were saving it for their 25th wedding anniversary, but they’re gone now so I don’t see the point in saving it any longer.  I’m going to get drunk tonight, and I’m going to forget everything.  If only for just a few hours.  I could really use a burden free night.  That may make me a coward, but I don’t really care.

            Cooper and I rarely talk about our families to each other, but I think he writes like I do.  I wonder what he writes.  I think we write because it hurts too much to say it out loud.  And it makes me wonder if it will ever hurt less.  If we will ever have the capacity to hold a conversation about our past lives without being reduced to rib-racking sobs.

            We’ve been here for thirteen days, but it feels like thirteen years.  Some mornings I wake up, half expecting the last ten months of my life to be a dream that I’ve woken from.  But every morning I am met with the shocking reality that everyone is dead, and we are here alone.  But enough of my melancholy thoughts; tonight I will be content with being alive.