The Weight of the Water

The river does not care for the names we give it. It moves with a heavy, ancient indifference, carving paths through the silt, indifferent to the hands that pull at its surface. We spend our lives trying to anchor ourselves to something solid, something that will not shift when the tide turns. We build, we row, we reach. We believe that if we work hard enough, the water will recognize our presence. But the water only knows its own depth. It is a cold, quiet labor, this business of existing. There is a dignity in the struggle, yes, but it is a lonely one. We are small figures against a vast, grey expanse, repeating the same motions until the sun climbs high enough to burn away the mist. What remains when the oars stop? Is the river any different for having carried us for a moment?

Nazmul Shanji has captured this quiet persistence in his image titled A Morning with Solidity. It reminds me that some burdens are meant to be carried in silence. Do you see the weight in the water?