In my bubble

I am the turtle. I take things slow.

I live in a bubble under the blue.

I found it when younger, and liked its comfort and safety, fresh from the rush of the beach, which all seemed unfair, being left alone like that, defenceless and soft from the egg.
My brothers and sisters swam on, but I stayed behind.

I would talk to myself to focus my thoughts.
I recently found that yes, I can talk. My real voice was feeble, bouncing around in my little dome, I didn't like to swim, and was mostly left alone.
My friend the crab kept me up on sea news, said the surface was getting darker, filling up with drifting bits and sometimes to breathe it would sting. He saw someone all wrapped up in tough pale loops, struggling, he was afraid to get trapped himself.
So I stayed home more, to avoid knowing what I was told.

One day crab didn't visit, I swam and searched but I dared not go far, for fear of the unknown that might pull me away.

It was more lonely then, when the memory would haunt.
I would swim little, to eat, then return home, and think some more about shadows In the sky, hidden in my shell.
There wasn't much to be done, I would just wait, ruminate.
Not everything was bad, it would seem, and less so as time passed, as I build solitude from my loneliness.

Months later, a spectre arrived, telling stories of a huge net, stowing away, being taken leagues, to a wall of lights and sound. He slipped off and explored, he came back to tell me what he had found.

He was so enthralled by this bright new world, he wanted to take me, but I refused, I thought there might be a connection, between the lights out there, and the darkening of our home.
He didn't know what to make of this, but clearly his journey had changed, his snapping was far from the same.
He would leave again, but now he returns, bringing gifts and stories.

He brought me a device, which I have learned how to use, wrapped in that same deadly plastic, it lights up, I write, and he takes it away.

I wonder what he will bring me next time.