Amphibian

I feel estranged, even from myself.

Every word seems to slip away, never grasping the heart of what I feel. It's as if every attempt to break the barriers remains unfinished: what I feel is never truly understood. To my eyes, the reading of the world seems so evident, and yet the constant clashes prove otherwise. Even when the language is the same, there is always a sense of estrangement, a void that separates us. Perhaps we are strangers, first and foremost, to ourselves. Perhaps our questions remain suspended, like an echo underwater.

And so I wonder: what truly remains when everything dissolves?

Perhaps there we might find some answer, or at least a mirror. The sea can rise as a wall or unfold as a highway, embodying both rupture and connection, a distance that divides or a passage that binds. In its vastness, it carries histories within each wave, fragments of time endlessly rewritten, yet never exhausted. It admits no borders, no definitive divisions; it dissolves the lines we draw, dispersing them into currents that blur and reform. What arrives on its surface is always partial, always provisional, a story still submerged, still waiting to be unveiled.
And yet it is also a continuum of memory, at once dispersing and preserving, where the past remains suspended, awaiting its unfinished telling.

It is in that seabed of unfinished history that you find me. Hidden within my dark places. The currents on the surface cross me, call me, and move me. They merge and break me, becoming stories that are not mine alone.
Are we the boundary of ourselves, yet the landing place for others? Is it in our breaking that we become part of the whole and remain a single unfinished being?

Yet, to be found between the depths of Olokun or surface thunders of Oya, beyond shifting roles, where currents carry an endless history, not inscribed in archives or monuments, but in silent sediments in each wave.
An entangled history, not a fixed chronicle but a living archive, dissolving boundaries and erasing borders, while holding within its vastness what has not yet been spoken. What it reveals never complete, what it conceals never lost. Yet, history does not conclude, it drifts onward, proliferating into innumerable paths still waiting to be unveiled.

No cardinal points to anchor its course, only the pull of vastness, where orientation falters and choices themselves become tides. In that uncertain expanse, we are seduced by the hesitation between departure and return, by the possibility that every beginning is already a form of repetition, and every encounter a fragment of a larger continuum.
The sea does not offer resolution but movement, unfinished allure in which memory or desire are forever entangled.

Thoughts, memories, nostalgia. Pain, regrets, choices, desires.
Choices. I am. We are?
I float and feel light, carried by our joint becoming, in a single liquid essence.
I wish to remain here, gazing at the Great Blue. Total, overwhelming. It fills my eyes, and my thoughts fall silent.
I listen. It is the song of a thousand sirens. Gods? They run and dance beneath or above me. Skin smooth, perfect. Reflective.
I am no longer. Now I am the whole. I am within the flow of absolute void and of millions of souls.
It is peace; war lies outside those invisible boundaries.
Do you hear me?

And if so, it is not with ears but with pulse that beats beneath the skin, echoing the depths where the ancestors stir the tempests.
I dissolve into their embrace, no longer separate, but folded into this ancestral tide. The sea holds me as both question and answer, as wound and caress, as silence and song. Here, in the trembling intimacy of its depths, I yield to the currents that undress memory and desire alike. I am carried, not away, but deeper into the place where beginnings and endings lose their edges, and only the eternal flow remains, touching me like the breath of a lover who is also the sea itself.

Finally I surrender.
I am. You are.
We are all currents meeting and merging, immersed in the endless flow.
Let us remain listening.

For in listening, we are carried further, into what has no end, into what is still becoming.
The sea speaks, and we, too, remain unfinished.