What Lies Below (2026)

At sixty feet, the colors vanish. Red is the first to go, bleeding out into a bruised grey. By two hundred feet, you are a ghost in a blue room. The silence here isn't empty; it’s heavy. It’s the sound of a billion tons of water holding its breath.

The rusted ribs of ships that haven't seen the sky in centuries. Anchors hooked into nothing. Cables that stretch into the dark like frozen nerves. There is a strange peace in these wrecks. They aren't just ruins; they are monuments to the audacity of the surface world, now claimed by the slow, rhythmic heartbeat of the tide. What Lies Below

Should we focus this piece more on the of the deep, or At sixty feet, the colors vanish

We think of the ocean as a floor, a boundary. But for those who go deep enough, it is a cathedral of the forgotten. The silence here isn't empty; it’s heavy

To look down into that blackness is to realize that the surface is just a thin, glittering veil. The real world—the ancient, unblinking heart of it—is down there, waiting in the dark.