You see, the sea speaks when it dances upon the rocks, its words lost in the crash and foam. Few hear its tales; fewer still believe. But I listen, ears wide as the horizon, heart tethered to the anchor of madness. There's comfort in knowing the depths hold truths we mortals can't fathom, undercurrents of stories untold.
A ship's wheel creaks above me, turned by hands unseen. The compass doesn't lie, but it doesn't tell the whole truth either. I have sailed beyond the maps, skirting edges where the ink bleeds into nothingness. Some call it the Bermuda of the mind, a sea of forgetfulness, but I call it home. Here, the sky bleeds into water, and time breaks like a bottle on the shore.
"Have you seen the fish with wings?" I ask the gulls, but they only caw and circle. I scribble notes in a bottle, casting them out to the currents, hoping they'll find a reader, a kindred spirit adrift in the tides of understanding.
It’s said the ocean has an echo of every soul it has swallowed, whispering their secrets to those patient enough to stay and listen.