Hope

Hope - #PlanetOrPlastic

With all my might I push from the ground, ready to follow my quest. I'm aware the task I set myself is huge for a tiny turtle. But if I don't succeed, who else will? Hope pushes me on, fear, and desperation.

Only the Old One can stop the destruction now, can heal the damage already done. I don't care if my peers laugh at me and insist Poseidon is the stuff of legends. Don't they know legends curl around a core of truth? And isn't it better to search for a legend than to die in despair?

I struggle on until the first swirls of a mighty current tickle my flippers. With its help, I will travel fast, away from the cursed land and out into the vast, open sea. Its blue depth harbours the Old One's resting place. I wonder how it looks, his home, the palace of the ancient master of the seven seas.

It's only natural he's tired after ruling for such a long time. But now, someone must disturb his nap. A new force is rising, a powerful adversary sneaked in during the ruler's rest.

Plasticos is the name of the usurper, He-Who-Adapts-His-Form, worshipped by the two-legged ones who dwell on land. Their lavish offerings to the new champion float in the sea, shiny ribbons of their faith. They suffocate us, strangle us, lure us to a painful death. Yes, the land dwellers turned from their water-born kindred.

The cold current carries me further than I've ever gone, far away from the dying reef I call my home. I snatch a tiny jellyfish drifting by, hungry, and glad I don't have to interrupt my voyage to search for food. But before I can swallow, I realise it's another piece of deceiving plastic. To puke out the clingy thing is an effort almost above my strength, but I must get rid of it. I've seen too many deaths caused by eating these lethal strands.

Rising to the surface to find new breath, I realise I'm swimming in an endless field of floating plastic now. There won't be anything to eat, and my life force is dwindling. Yet I must move on, find the Old One, wake him, gain his attention. He is our only hope—all else has failed.

Many gave their best to stop the devastation. Whales tried to communicate with the land dwellers for generations, throwing themselves onto desolate beaches to mark a desperate point in a painful death. Their sacrifice was in vain, ignored by the worshippers of the new master.

The sun sets in the west, and still, I struggle onwards. Perhaps Poseidon will listen to a tiny turtle's call. Perhaps he will rise one last time, ride the white horses of foam and shake his mighty trident to rescue his dying creatures.

As long as I swim, a sliver of hope remains.