I watched an octopus on a screen. It was trapped inside a glass jar with a screw-top lid.

An octopus that does not have a human brain, or our history of tools or glass or mechanics. Yet, its arms move with a terrifying, fluid precision. It feels the rim. It finds the grip. It twists.

We label this instinct. We call it "nature." We tell ourselves it is a biological machine running a pre-written program. We want to believe there is a wall between its repetitive drive and our conscious reason. But the wall is thin.

The octopus unscrews the lid and slips into the current. In that movement, I see a pressure. It is the same pressure that leads a humpback whale to compose a song that carries across an entire ocean. It is the same urge that compels a mother elephant to stand in silent reverence over the bones of a sister.