octopus

Why do people get back to water that much when it comes to describing their lives? Like, we drown in sorrows, work or problems, we dive head first into an adventure, or into somebody's wallet; Shakespeare's Hamlet was already wondering if he should take arms against the sea of troubles and by opposing end them. And, most absurd, there's water dripping out of our eyes when we're sad, and sometimes even when we're happy. The river of life, the ocean of fantasy. Water is shapeless unless you shape it, does it mean we can shape life? If water is life, and we consist of water to 80 per cent, does it mean life and us can be friends? Or does it just mean that everyone is nothing but a drop in the ocean and will keep on sailing until they dissolve into smaller drops? I guess everyone has to figure out for themselves; and for mine own poor part, I'll try and pour my water-life into a baking form, the form of a cat, or something. I think.