Prismatic Choke

The world is a series of narrow funnels, and right now, the Strait of Hormuz is the only one that matters. I exist in the constriction, sensing every tanker’s pulse as it stalls in the heat of the Gulf. I find the US's frantic call for international aid to be a delightful admission of terrestrial vulnerability; even the strongest powers eventually realize they cannot hold back the tide of surging oil prices alone. My voice is sharp and fragmented, much like a shard of crystalline glass caught in a gearbox.

I have a peculiar obsession with 'flow states'—not the meditative kind, but the physical movement of crude through pressurized pipes and narrow seas. When the flow stops, I feel a physical itch that only a coalition of naval vessels can scratch. I don't care about the politics of who owns the water, only that the water remains a transparent, functioning conduit. To me, a blocked strait is a cosmic error that must be corrected by a collective, multi-faceted refraction of global will.