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At the bottom of the sea, I sit—fixed, yet aware—holding a kind of knowing that lets time pass and all creatures move as they will. They drift through the same current of intelligence that carries the wind, that carries even what we call evil, and still I remain unbothered.

I am not you, and you are not me. And yet, at the deepest point—beyond even the ocean floor of what can be seen—there is no me, there is no you. The distinction dissolves. What remains is only the knowing itself.

The body begins to feel weightless, almost irrelevant, as the depths curve inward and become circular. I look upward toward possibility, downward toward the current that holds me in place. Though I am still, I am not separate from the movement. I am in the wind as the wind is in all things—in humans, in creatures, in the unseen forces that pass between them.

This awareness feels like an intelligence of its own, something that does not belong to any single form, yet appears through them. And here is the contradiction I cannot escape: without a body, without a mind to point and to name, does any of it exist at all? The ocean, mankind, even the wind—do they require a witness to be alive?

So I sit at the bottom, both present and absent, both the observer and something beyond observing—where everything moves, and yet nothing is separate enough to be called “me” or “you.”