Seclusion

Like yesterday, and the day before, and every other day for as long as I can remember, I gaze out to the morning sea.
Except in winter, you never know when it’s morning, since the Sun doesn’t rise down here in Antarctica. I choose when to awaken, and when it’s time to go back to sleep. There’s no concept of days, or nights, or time. It’s eternally dark until summer, which is the only time that matters.
The sea is still today. It’s not always. Sometimes it churns and wobbles, throwing wave after wave against the cliffs like a barrage of shells each blossoming into a spiral of foam. It makes me wonder if the rest of the world has thrown themselves into yet another war again. Other times it’s eerily still, and flat, too flat, and I wonder if humanity has wiped itself out through some extinction-level catastrophe.
Today, a thin layer of mist levitates over the dark surface of the water, silently slithering in imperceptible swirls. It’s phantom white, and seems to smother any sound or movement, swallowing them into its silky depths. The animals dislike mist, and it throws them off – but I embrace it. It means no chance of visitors.
The frosty air bites, but hasn’t it always? My frozen skin, pale as a pearl, has long gotten used to it. Just like my heart has gotten used to the loneliness.
‘I’m not lonely,’ I tell myself occasionally. When a particularly vivid dream has sent me spiralling into the past.
I’ve taught myself to detach from those thoughts, taking each one like a tiny delicate snowflake in my hand, plucking it apart into a dozen miniscule crystal shards, and burying each deep into the ice, locked away forever. But they melt. They always melt.
I always try to restrain myself, yet I can’t help but wonder what the world is like. What are they doing? What if I had never left?
Never. No one can ever come here.
I’ve lost myself in my thoughts again. It always ends like that.