Where I am matters not as much as where as where I come from. You may have found me now, a sea-green and shining bottle floating in the froth, laboriously sighed out in high tide, but my journey has been long.
They used to say my colour was sea-green, but from what I have seen of the vast, ocean that brings me to your feet, what I have seen of glimmering shoals of pink fish and white birds and a deep, deep inky abyss beneath a blue, blue space of never-ending everything, is that the sea is far from green, and that our Earth is a fusion of all colours.
When you read this, the world I have travelled from will have dissipated. The time is took for this message to cross the Atlantic has all but erased my point of origin, the bittersweet tendrils of temporality pushing the very reason for which I made this voyage far beyond the horizon.
I was one of many bottled tossed out as a cry for help from those who could no longer bear the struggles of glueing together cracks in a system that showed little mercy for those it hurt the most, and didn’t bother to seal up its errors and misgivings. Back there, the sea would also cough up bottles and junk and memories of loss that waded between jellyfish and bits of broken boats until the tides were swollen with pain, no, not green but a punctured red reflection of a sun that was slowly setting.
I am no different to the other pieces of debris left floating in the murk, just one of the lucky ones to make it to the other side. But now my identity cannot be decided for me. I am more than a sea-green bottle, I am the voice of those who were left unheard, but a voice that won’t be silenced as I bring my story to shores far afield. I left my homeland only with the objective of finding land anew, but now I hesitate to leave this cool liquid that holds me in its wake, bringing me away from there but never quite reaching here. Not green, but iridescent, a reminder of the possibilities of never-ending everything.