The Living Silence

In the endless black between stars, where gentle flickers like dying sparks and time does not have any form, there floats something uncommon — something alive.

It generally does not blaze such as a celebrity or drift like dust.

It turns in silence.

A Air suspended in the black.

It's not the largest, or the brightest. But it's alone we have ever known that sings.

Its voice is not loud. It speaks in patterns — in the movement of oceans, in the tremble of leaves, in the breeze that waves about mountaintops. Every sound it generates is just a memory. Every change, a reminder that even silence bears rhythm.

Beneath their sky, trees increase like thoughts. Streams transfer like veins. Lightning forks like sudden language. Fire still sleeps in its belly, heavy under the crust, rolling gently, recalling the day it first burned.

We go on their floor like dreams forced to their epidermis — short and fragile, however not unnoticed.

We get, we construct, we wander across their spine.

We name everything we touch.

We overlook how little we all know of what lies beneath.

You will find hills which have watched the air modify shape.

Canyons etched not by fingers, but by patience.

Woods that have never seen an individual voice, however breathing in great rhythm.

And we — a glint in its schedule — ask it for more.

More land.

More warmth.

More answers.

But it has already provided us everything.

It's given people weather. Color. Sound.

It has provided us a location wherever water runs free, where gentle bends through clouds, wherever earth understands how to develop life from nothing.

In every our exploring — through telescopes, rockets, remote dreams — we have never found yet another like it. Never discovered another position where air can be born, wherever stories get origin, where in fact the sky starts maybe not with emptiness, but with thunder and birds.

That Planet, quiet as it can look, is magic we've hardly started to understand.

And however, we processor out at it.

We check their patience.

We protect their streams with metal and silence its forests.

However, it turns.

Still, it rains.

However, it allows us to live.

There could be other sides — scattered, icy, waiting in the dark. But nothing that maintain us therefore completely. Nothing that have formed us into what we're, or can be.

That world is not merely our home.

It is our beginning.

And if we listen carefully — when we stop talking long enough — we might hear it however whispering back.

Perhaps not with words.

But with wind.

With waves.

With the smooth rumble beneath our feet that reminds us:

We're sitting on anything alive.