The depths hum with just about everything imaginable. Moving at an unimaginable speed. In a reinforced tube no bigger than a garden hose. You are here one moment. And then, in a nanosecond, you are somewhere else.
I suppose we go out to sea because we want, eventually, to come home. I know this now, but it was new to me then. The best way to experience home is to lose it for a while. Then, when it is gone, you can know what it is. You can yearn to return to it. It is a form of wounding. You welcome the scar so it will remind you of where you once were.
I had begun to think that there might be something monumental here. A vague element of the mythical. The velocity of who we are. Every scrap of existence colliding inside the tubes: the weak force, the strong force, the theory of everything. And, of course, every inanity was whirling inside there too. All of it tumbling in unison along the sea floor.
More life on the bottom of the ocean than anywhere else. In the vents. The layers. The currents. Things down there betray all the categories.
We prefigure our futures by imagining our pasts. To go back and forth. Across the waters. The past, the present, the elusive future. A nation. Everything constantly shifted by the present. The taut elastic of time.