Juan J. Morales

In the viral video, the octopus sleeps in the black, along the top of the water, suctioned to her tank’s glass walls. Her reflection is slow ripples. At first she’s a placated white, like pristine glaciers that have avoided pollution. The texture roughens—spiky as the fragile coral reef that breathes brown, yellow, and gray. When head twitches, she clouds into the red, purple, and black until transitioning to a gray that surrenders to yellow. Her head and eyes waver but remain shut. Somewhere in its dance of color, I saw a martian landscape appear, a cloud of harsh storm, and then back to the peaceful swivel and drift of clouds that bounces on the water’s surface. The scientists report it unlikely to be octopus dreams, but instead of worrying, I accept all invitations to be submerged.

At Lago Muerte, the fishermen calmly cast out their lines, reeling in very tiny fish. I felt out of place because I forgot my pole. When I looked closer, the lake was an empty plain filled with dried logs and rocks. I could barely make out the line where the waves once lapped. One of the fishermen turned to me, “This is an impossible feeling,” he said as he tugged another glistening one out of the lake. The fish tried to breathe and stared past me. “Everything is nonsense, but you can’t help but feel lucky.” He resumed fishing. Afraid of being hooked by one of them, I backed up. I started telling them about the time I hooked my thumb all the way through, but they stopped me because I had already told them.