Everyone wants to be a writer.
Few want to learn to swim.
A school of fish knows something you don’t:
survival is not solo brilliance.
No fish asks,
“Where is my individuality?”
when the current turns violent.
They move.
Together.
Instinct sharp as hunger.
And then comes your school,
walls, words, awards.
Ideas floating separately,
colliding,
calling that chaos originality.
A school of thought
is not noise.
It is alignment.
Fish don’t rehearse unity.
They are unity.
They don’t romanticize freedom,
they respect direction.
Learning is not decoration.
It is motion under pressure.
So before you call yourself a writer,
ask:
Can you flow
without applause?
Can you turn
without being told?
Can you belong
without losing depth?
Because real schools
don’t announce themselves.
They move,
and the ocean makes space.
