The Sea Needs No Witness

When I think of the sea, I think of The Old Man and the Sea. Not of the struggle, but of what remains after.

The need to prove something belongs to the young. They still carry that hunger.

If it has not been done by now, then it is too late for that. And perhaps that is as it should be.

Even if I were to try—for whom?

Those who do not believe? They would not. Not even then.

And I—what would I gain?

I sit here, the book in my hand. I do not smile to show anything. I smile because I know.

They look at me. They see me. And they already know, though no one says it.

Who I am.

No words. No proof. No claim.

Like the sea.