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Zoey Brokaw

There is a type of calm I perceive to inhabit under the sea. It starts on the shoreline, in the powdered sugar sand beneath my wiggling, anxious toes, searching for the cool waves of the ocean instead of the hot heat beneath my feet and the heavy sunshine kissing my back. I don’t mind the heat; sometimes the weighty warmth of the sun is comforting, but I didn’t come to the beach for the sun—no, I came for the water. I race against the wind, feelings of restlessness arousing due to the mist beginning to grace my face, I pick up speed and dive right into the ocean. I search for the bottom, for there is peace there, all I want is peace, so all I want is the bottom.


This memory floods my mind, like the current did when I stayed under a little too long, burning the inside of my nose, my eyes begin to water. My eyes water here too. I’m cautiously walking among this sea of anemones, but this time, it’s above sea level. There’s a paved path but I pay no attention to it for I’m lost, lost at the bottom of the ocean without the stress of straining for breath at the last second because it’s still free here.


Usually red is violent, yellow kind, but this time red is softly embracing the orange which seeps into the wildest yellow I have ever seen. I find peace at the bottom of the ocean, but I’ve never really been there, this place is peace, wild peace.

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