The ocean doesn’t speak. It just is. It holds no arguments, no justification for its moods. It can rage, weep, go utterly still—and not once apologize. And that, I suppose, is why I find comfort here. There are days when I think the sea remembers more than any of us. That its depths cradle the ancient weight of things we’ll never understand—like silence that has texture, or grief that never found a voice. Perhaps that’s why I drift. It’s not the kind of drifting that sailors do. There’s no direction. No compass. Just me and the slow hum of thought that rises and falls like the tide, echoing off the inside of my skull like waves against a hollow cave. Today, the sea is almost still. A deep breath between centuries. There’s no land in sight. Only a stretch of horizon that feels less like an edge and more like a blur—a slow dissolving of the known into the unspoken. I’m surrounded by a color I can’t name. Somewhere between blue and memory.And I wonder—what’s left when everything aro...