Five Items

 If I ever washed up alone on a deserted island, the first sound would be the sudden silence. No engine noise. No aircraft passing overhead. No buzz of screens demanding attention. Just wind and waves. A life stripped back to essence.

What five things would I need then?

First. A knife with a proper grip. Something that remembers the shape of a human hand. I have worked too long in environments where the right tool is the difference between a fix and a funeral. A knife that can cut rope, shave wood, clean fish, and shape something from nothing. A tool that feels honest. No gadget beats simplicity earned over time.

Second. A Bible. Even when I have tried to outrun it, the stories have found me again. In jungles. In deserts. In hangars at three in the morning. Words that remind me the world is bigger than whatever fear is gripping me in the moment. Horizons come back into view when you read truth spoken across centuries.

Third. A notebook with a strong cover and a pencil that can survive being sharpened down to a stub. Writing is how I map the terrain inside myself. How I turn chaos into meaning. On an empty island, thoughts can become enemies if you do not pin them down. It's better to write them out and see what kind of man you are becoming.

Fourth. A sturdy pair of boots. I grew up where the earth itself could cut you open. Sharp stones. Termite mounds hardened by the sun. Roots waiting to grab your ankle. Bare feet romanticize adventure. Boots let you go farther without paying for it in blood. Freedom needs gear.

Fifth. A photograph of the people who would come looking for me. Not because I need a keepsake. Because purpose is fuel. You fight harder to survive when you are not just living for yourself. The faces of those you love can pull you through a thousand lonely nights that would otherwise swallow you whole.

Some would say I forgot things like fire. Shelter. Tools for water. But here is the truth. A human who still remembers why he wants to live will build the rest.

I have spent enough years between worlds to know that loneliness is not solved by objects. It is solved by meaning. By memory. By mission. A deserted island only becomes a prison if you let your hope die before your body does.

So if you ever find yourself stranded with nothing but your skin, ask this question. What is worth fighting the whole ocean for.

The answer to that is the most important item of all.

I write

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