Underwater Light

The sun bends through green glass, reaching down in ribbons of gold, each ray a corridor where dust motes drift like small ships.

Nothing moves in straight lines here. Sound arrives delayed, weighted, a language without edges. Even the fish negotiate the current the way we negotiate memory— half-remembering, half-inventing.

Below this, the pressure darkens into blues that have no names, and deeper still, the cold that asks nothing of us, expects only that we dissolve into the dark's arithmetic.

But here, in the middle light, we hover— suspended between the world's two breaths, watching how the ordinary becomes sacred when filtered through distance.