Lone.

Man is an island. Alone and self sufficient. Whatever it needs, it finds in itself. Trade routes exist, but only to taste the flavors of other islands, for variety, or merely to compare its internal processes in respect to the others that exist in its vicinity. It observes other cultures, it shares its fruits, it prohibits entry to those not worthy of entering it, but it remains, foremost, a single entity. Alone.

Drifting across a vast ocean, it frequently comes across other lands conducive to its survival. IT may linger on, as long as its attention is capable of being held, and then move on for greener pastures. For no matter how complimentary its new found surroundings might be, an island by its very definition cannot be tied down, or it loses its identity.

Rarely, almost impossible to find, is the island which, willingly, drops anchor for the rest of its existence. You can tell it from the unhappy islands that are forced to stay put from the surrounding waters. The waters around the happy islands are never calm, high tide, frothy waves, as if they want to be the fuel that moves the island. As much as the ocean may try, however, the island fights it, happily, knowing that the fight it puts up tells it how much it wants to stay. The much more frequently found unhappy island, in stark contrast, waits for that one powerful wave that will galvanize its stuck anchor, and it'll be free forever. It will never come.

No man is an island. For long.