The weight of ocean water surrounds me, but does not smother me; it does not crush my skeleton into a finely granulated dust. I can see the idea of its volume, but it does not affect me physically. The darkness of thick liquid is all around, but somehow I can see; somehow the whispers of images in the black are known to me. A rocky floor is underneath me, and my knees and feet knock against it as the currents move me where they will.

I am alone there.

Then. A shape moves far away. I can barely make it out from my position; it is a large, sleek object that appears to be made out of motion itself. Its actions are slow, labored; it carries the weight of the world in its being. Barely am I able to rightly focus on it before a rumble deep within the ocean floor scatters up clouds of dust and debris. The source is a sound, a terrific plunging sound that makes my ribcage strain and threaten to break. It starts as pure vibration, then escalates swifty upwards, into an undulating array of clicks and low, mournful wails.

The bits of light that had filtered through the water to allow my vision were shut off as a curtain of black shape drew slowly over my head. It had a solidity of purpose and life that struck the terror of unknown immensity into my awareness. My arm reached upwards of seemingly of its own volition; I had to touch this source of existence.

My fingers brushed it.

My awareness ... tilted.
I was [flash] not looking through water or light, but instead [flash] I was water, and light, and [flash] every bit of physicality that had come into this world. The life of ages swept through me, textures and experiences and ideas that my mind raced to grasp.

The touch broke, and the whale glided silently past. I watched it go; I watched this keeper of the secrets of time move away. It was as if I had touched the core of the earth itself, and everything that had ever come to pass in and on it.

I closed my eyes and the ocean disappeared, and there was only imagination.