The Interpreter.
In the sunken ships at the bottom of the ocean, I swim through coral built up after years and years of abandonment. My eyes are accustomed to the lack of light, to the things that usually go unseen. There is a whole world beneath me still, and a whole world above me. I am pushing through this life, an interpreter of all the world's woes, of all the world's wonders.
And yet, no one sees me but those who set out searching; no one finds me but those who dedicate their lives to what I am, to the energy which flows out from all things. I can feel my importance in the world of humanity, in the world of animals, bacteria, in the way the ocean's waves slap against the shore, in the patterns that birds make as they fly the skies in flocks. But, sometimes, in the rushing hush of people shuffling through each other, past each other, I wonder what I'm doing here in this life. What role do I have? What am I but some long lost idea, some antiquated notion that all things have a center- all things reach their goals?
I suppose, I am everything. I am the blood that drips from the teeth of the alligator; I am the lion that lies down with the lambs. I am the etches on the walls of caves and the paint that forms the picture of what it means to make. Consumption and disillusion, excitement and desire; I am all of these things and more. I am only sitting and waiting in the wings; I am everywhere- wishing to be used up- to be made into something more.
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