Behind the Glass

I went to an aquarium the other day.

It’s always a strange experience — walking through dim light, surrounded by glass that feels thin enough to break, yet thick enough to separate two worlds. The underwater realm has an alien stillness to it, a rhythm that doesn’t belong to us. Time seems to stretch and slow, as if the water itself bends it.

I found myself staring at the creatures drifting by — translucent jellyfish, silver schools of fish that moved as one, a slow-gliding ray that looked like a shadow come to life. There’s something deeply humbling about that blue light, about realizing how foreign yet familiar these beings are. They breathe the same oxygen, follow their own choreography, and live in a silence we can only imagine.

Walking beside the glass, I felt both like an intruder and a guest. The sea behind it was a reminder of how little we know — of the worlds that exist parallel to ours, unseen and vast. It’s easy to forget that we share a planet with entire civilizations of coral, kelp, and current, each with its own language of movement.

The underwater world makes me think about imagination — how art often tries to capture what exists beyond our reach. Every ripple, every glimmer of light refracted through water feels like a story being told without words. Maybe that’s what draws me to it: the mystery, the beauty of something that resists full understanding.

When I finally left the aquarium, the air felt too dry, too loud. But part of me stayed behind — suspended in that slow, floating quietness, where everything moves with purpose, and nothing rushes.