In that blue, something is writing itself.
Out of tiny letters and quiet marks, hammerhead sharks rise and move. Their bodies are built from text, as if the ocean had learned to speak in code and the code had learned to swim. Each shark is a sentence that never finishes. The wide hammer of its head is a line of text, and the tail is a long breath drawn out behind it.
We see them from above, the way a gull sees the sea, or a god, or a memory. From up here they are shadows with a purpose.
The way they move;
Nothing here is a loop. These sharks follow no track. Each one chases a point of light that drifts slowly across the dark, and it never quite arrives, which is how a wanderer stays a wanderer. The head leads and the body remembers, so every curve is a thought that travels from nose to tail. When the tail beats faster, the water has been asked to hurry. When the shark nears the edge of the world, it turns away slowly and gracefully, like someone who has already seen what is out there.
The life of the Swarm;
It begins in quiet, with only a few. Then they find each other. They circle close, two shadows folded around one question, and the water holds still for a moment.
Then there are pups, small and unsure, drifting in their mother’s wake like the first words of a new language. They grow, learn the dark and swim away. The old ones keep swimming, and when their time comes they do not fall. They fade, a letter at a time, until the blue forgets the shape of them.
So the swarm swells like a tide coming in, then thins like a tide going out. It is crowded, then spacious, then crowded again. It was never finished and it never ends. The ocean only breathes.
Each time you open it, the story begins again from the quiet, and it unfolds a little differently.