The Living Silence

In the countless dark between stars, where gentle flickers like desperate sparks and time doesn't have shape, there drifts something rare — anything alive.

It does not blaze like a star or drift like dust.

It turns in silence.

A Air halted in the black.

It is not the largest, or the brightest. But it is the only person we've ever identified that sings.

Their voice isn't loud. It speaks in styles — in the movement of oceans, in the tremble of leaves, in the wind that curls about mountaintops. Every sound it makes is just a memory. Every shift, a memory that even silence provides rhythm.

Beneath their air, trees rise like thoughts. Rivers shift like veins. Lightning forks like quick language. Fireplace still rests in its stomach, heavy under the crust, churning silently, remembering your day it first burned.

We live on its surface like dreams forced to their skin — short and sensitive, however, not unnoticed.

We dig, we build, we wander across its spine.

We name every thing we touch.

We overlook how small we know of what lies beneath.

You can find mountains which have observed the air modify shape.

Canyons etched not by fingers, but by patience.

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

And we — a glint in its timeline — question it for more.

More land.

More warmth.

More answers.

But it has provided people everything.

It has provided us weather. Color. Sound.

It has provided us a place wherever water goes free, where light bends through clouds, where earth understands how to develop living from nothing.

In most our searching — through telescopes, rockets, remote dreams — we've never found yet another like it. Never found still another position wherever air can be created, wherever stories get root, where the atmosphere starts perhaps not with emptiness, but with magic and birds.

That Planet, calm as it can appear, is magic we have barely started to understand.

And yet, we processor out at it.

We check their patience.

We cover its streams with steel and stop their forests.

However, it turns.

However, it rains.

Still, it allows us to live.

There might be different worlds — scattered, frozen, waiting in the dark. But nothing that hold us so completely. None which have formed us in to what we are, or could be.

This planet is not merely our home.

It's our beginning.

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

Maybe not with words.

But with wind.

With waves.

With the delicate rumble beneath our legs that reminds us:

We're looking at something alive.