At fourteen, acutely and newly voiceless
I became preoccupied with the basking shark.
From an animal family typecast as
vicious and soulless and yet itself chiefly
passive, it is a creature of pilgrimage,
traveling far and slow with the brackish
seasons and tides. How analeptic, I
thought, to drift from place to place
without affliction or care. At fourteen,
the basking shark’s liminal, perpetual
fate as a simple tourist on this Earth,
its life predetermined as transient,
stirred my jealousy and fascination.
Enduring what felt at that age like limitless
suffering, I imagined myself drifting
in the vast seawater for eternity, thoughts
aimless and opaque, so close to oblivion—
yet still entirely corporeal and spirited.
Little to think about, little to harm me.
Just that endless and boundless ocean.
Open and certain as a void.