Shallow, being the depth at which nothing particularly reaches any depth, remains often unfathomable. The inaccessible reasoning beneath the surface of such things as carefully articulated banalities and artful pretensions is deceptively faceted and filled with meaning; hardly shallow.
Broad sweeps of shallow voices breed complex intonations and draughts of considerable measure that, when taken together become far deeper than any selected portion of the available range. Shallows become fathoms when overt platitudes are subtly filtered and panned.
Superficiality tends to lend itself to infection that renders deep wounds, bulging scars that rise above the surface as much as sinking below. Even upon healing, by word or work, shallow remains will be found, lurking.
Without depth, comprehension is easy to find, though resoundingly average exclamations bring nuance to the shallows. Which shallows, of course increase in volume vertically, rendering a depth in which drowning is entirely possible.
If an infant can discover oblivion in a bucket, or if a single word can impale as a sword, or if a minimalist can capture eternity in a few strokes, anything shallow is depth well disguised. What we call shallow, in any case, is either useful or troublesome, and hardly safe or mundane.
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This is from an old writing group. I think it was “write200” or “200 Words”. A single word was given, and writers would submit two hundred words for the prompt. I made two of these. This one is Shallow.
Paper Screams 