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We swim in the same deep water, borne by the same current that lifts us toward ecstasy and sinks ships in the middle of the night, a night bleeding into day, never breaking its gaze from your eyes as they search for tomorrow and ache for yesteryear.

And still we resist. We cling to splintered wood, to names, to the temporary architecture of ourselves, as though survival were the same thing as living. We curse the ocean for its depth while forgetting that it once carried us. We hunger for the safety of land even as the land teaches us drought, distance, and longing.

Love makes this contradiction unbearable. Hate makes it eternal. Between them, the human heart drifts like wreckage and prayer at once wanting to dissolve into something larger, yet terrified of losing its shape. We miss the ocean because we spend our lives resisting its pull, clutching at certainty while thirsting for surrender. And all the while, we ache for the same shore as if it could save us from ourselves.

Yet the sea remains unchanged. It gathers our lost souls without judgment: those lost to memory, to war, to love, to time. To the mind they are gone, but to the captain they are never truly lost, only transformed, temporarily disguised as rain, as fiction.