outline of an island

An amorphous shape on a piece of paper.
We trace it first with our eyes, then with our fingertips. In our minds eye, it becomes the territory rather than the map. A reminder of what we once experienced within a dream, as we looked down from the skies far above the world, as if in an airplane cockpit.
Our eyes repeat the movement, around and around the outline, cyclical. The movement becoming a routine, we measure out the length it takes us to travel from one point to the other. We think of our days spent portioning out what we have, evenly spooning out a quantity here and there.
We trace the line once more, track each curve and corner. An outline in profile, if we could imagine another angle, it would gain weight and volume. The flat shape becomes an omen of a personal presence. Bumps and knobs morphing into a topography resembling the look we wear to face the world outside ourselves.
We avert our eyes, the afterimage still etched into our view, the shape as a sign defining what we read into whatever we look at next.