Fingers skimmed the surface of blue water. It rippled and waved outward, toward the sea.
And the liquid of life and waves and serenity.
The water forced her hair back. Fish swam by and a wave was casted. A glint of metal was at the bottom of the ocean.
And hair and fish and a shipwreck.
A deep breathe was pulled as she broke the surface. Seagulls called out for others and food that was barely there anymore.
And oxygen and birds and hunger.
Again under, blue surrounding her form. Black at the sides of her vision and bubbles floating to the surface.
And diving and pollution and air.
Deeper and deeper, the weight pulling her down. Deeper and deeper was shouted out by the animals.
And drowning and cold and death.
Black from the depth. Cold from the pressure. Death from the non-beating heart.
And poverty and hunger and no freedom and war and slavery and depression and death and dying and death and death and death death death death death.
Isn't that all we're made of?