Let others measure their wealth in chlorinated blue, in tiles laid straight by another’s hands. Theirs is a kingdom of edges—of depths calculated, of surfaces kept still.
But you will know the ocean—its salt-stung freedom, its waves that refuse to be numbered, its whales that rise like dark moons to greet you. Here, the water is alive, and so are we.
Richness is not a thing counted, but a way of seeing. It is the gulls that cry your name to the wind, the horizon that stitches sky to sea like a promise, the way your small hands will one day hold a shell and hear eternity inside it.
To stand here, with the cosmos swirling over the waves, is to understand: the world will try to sell you smallness—neat fences, shallow ends. But you? You were born to wade into the infinite, to laugh as the tide knocks you over, to name your coins in sunlight and starfish.