When I first felt the whisper of the abyss, it didn't speak of fear or fury. It only intoned a gentle call, like the embrace of an old friend. Each caress of the wave was a reminder of what once was—what could have been.

In these depths, I see reflections of lives not lived—ghostly silhouettes making promises to the moon. They slip away as effortlessly as shadows at dawn. Here, the waters are neither cold nor warm but hold a memory of loneliness that seeps into the bones.

Is there a shore where one might land after such a journey? Or is the soul destined to be adrift, a whisper amidst a cacophony of echoes? I long to grasp something tangible, yet everything slips through my fingers—like sand, like time, like hope.

A myriad visions emerge, flickering like stars beneath the ocean's surface, each an untouched dream. The questions remain: Is it blindness that prevents vision, or is vision itself the curse? In silence, I choose to sink further, until all that remains is a shimmer of truths deeply buried.