26

While my brethren climbed strenuously from the water onto the muck, I remained comfortably protected by the ocean. The original chemicals of life continue to swarm around me, providing nutrients and comfort.

I’ve changed and grown over the eons. And yet I am the same. Starting from a single cell, I’ve expanded and accumulated additional cells. My proto-gills have become gills. My light sensors have become eyes. I don’t just surround food to intake, I ingest through my mouth. With the advent of humans, I am a fish, a creature with a name.

I have emerged from the world and yet I do not feel a part of it. I swim but I feel no tug from any destination. Often I simply float, drift.

I am more complex than when I began, but still just a creature with intake and excretions. I seem to be more in control but I remain strenuously guided by waves and other forces.

Can a fish feel alienation? I am an essential expression of the planet, possibly an inevitable outgrowth from it, a vegetable in the primordial soup. For countless generations, I’ve managed to pass on my genes before being consumed by bigger fish. As the race continues, my line remains swift enough to survive.

But I’m a biological cog, a small piece of a giant machine. If I failed, a backup part would easily take my place. I am just a fish, a creature of the ocean, a complex structure built from organic chemical compounds. I am insignificant. I barely belong here. I am an accident. I am just a fish, or more specifically, a fluke.