We do it for the water, for the way it swirls and roils and slides into rippled slicks of turquoise. For the promises held and sometimes kept. For the sound of soft and necessary violence as it breaks and bubbles only to calm and repeat in an endless cycle. For the way it sometimes mirrors the sky and makes us question which side we are really on?
We do it for the fish. Not because they are huge and egregious, but because they are exactly the opposite. Small, wondrous and wild. Because in a world where delicate things are broken, their survival is a small form of rebellion– of resistance and hope. For the way vermiculate borders mend in current and the silver flash of reveal. For the hypnotic amalgamation of color that makes us question if anything can really be this beautiful?
We do it for its uselessness. We know we aren’t saving anything or anyone, except maybe ourselves. We’ve chosen this as our quiet defiance, as our place to watch society unravel in the distance. That is not to say that we don’t care– rather we care in different ways. Ways unacceptable to some, but they make perfect sense to us. Each cast a tiny prayer, a small act of faith that is sometimes answered.
But mostly we do it for each other. For the secrets we get to carry and how their shared burden
somehow brings us closer– stronger even. For the lies we get to tell to strangers. Because the only way to truly confirm our existence is through each other and the stories we create– together.
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