The world, for a moment anyways, is rather beautiful. The pall of death and dying seems almost  decorative as it covers the vibrant infinite variations of life and life to come.

I feel the presence of the turtle below my feet as I walk on the Earth and the Earth flows around the universe upon his back.

People are passing me this way and that. The city is alive with ignorance and the want of power — the power to change things, the power to be things, the power for power’s sake — and I’m glad to watch it pass.

I want nothing but to ask the turtle why he swims, why he carries us all, why no one is aware of him moving about the universe. I want to ask, but I choose silence instead.

The sky is gray, the air is raw, and I start to laugh. I realize, I’m just a silly story being told by a turtle to an irrelevant audience.

I look down at my hand and feet, accept that I’m still not a jellyfish and for a moment, I’m grateful.

The world is beautiful.

“Thank you,” I whisper to the turtle and no one hears.

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