Be water.
This is a record of the waters I’ve crossed.
Some fall fast. Some stay still for hours.
Some reflect cities. Others hold no reflection at all.

I don’t chase destinations.
But I remember how the air changed near each ocean.
The Pacific felt thin and distant.
The Atlantic heavier, more deliberate.
The Indian held its warmth even in silence.
The Southern—almost not water, more like waiting.

Each place different.
Each water moving toward the same end.
If people across the world can meet—then maybe, so can the water.