It’s slower than at home.  The time on an island moves languidly, like the inhabitants. I wake up to the sound of a rooster, spend the day listening to the waves and wind rustling palm leaves, and fall asleep to a chorus of crickets occasionally punctuated with a horse’s whinny.  

The stars are the brightest I’ve ever seen, and I mistook the moon for the sun once.  The rain comes quickly and falls heavily… and then it’s gone.  And in its place are the most beautiful rainbows. 

I think the air might be filled with magic.  There’s just a sense of something happening.  A quivering in the air—the scent of night-blooming jasmine.

I feel so lethargic, though.  The most I’ve moved is a walk I took with my mom, and a few laps swum in the ocean.  It’s hard to get that “get-up-and-go” attitude when I’m surrounded with “stay-here-and-play.” (On more than one occasion, my mom has ordered me to “Finish your rum!”)

Last night a guest at a dinner party was telling me about her son going to college, and how she needed him to get off the island and into reality.  Hawaii is not reality.  It’s a nirvana, a playground, a whore-house for the senses. And while I could be perfectly content never leaving, my life would turn into a sugary slow-moving mass of happiness.  

I’m not ready for paradise yet.  I need to see the real world first.