Somewhere between mist and the deep ocean, silence becomes a form of protest. We softly tread the line between reality and absurdity, balancing like a dreamer mistakenly slipped into the council of fish. What a puddle expects each raindrop to be — the thought lingers, freeing us from understanding anything...
Today my ambition is to become a lake: reflecting without judgment, distorting situations with sacred and satirical irony. Moving in waves entirely my own. Yesterday, I was a bemused drop in a bureaucratic bucket, aimlessly sputtering to fill quotas of wetness.
As water, the grand escapist, I find my way navigating pipes of society, waiting to burst into open conversations. Ironic, when easing through the narrowest taps, no one mentions the aspiration of a waterfall — we climb, drop, and cease, announcing our presence loud and deliberately dynamic.