The Sky Is Watching Us… But It Will Never Speak

Search up.

The sky looks countless, does not it? A soft orange canopy by time, a glittering infinity by night. But you can find moments — uncommon, calm minutes — when it thinks alive. Once the stars develop against the blackness, when the wind pauses, and you feeling that the whole sky is keeping their breath.

And in those instances, you understand the truth: the sky is watching.

However it won't ever speak.

We imagine the sky as a gap, bare and silent. However it's any such thing but empty. Above people extends a restless water of air and light, swirling with hidden Planet currents. Winds shout across the planet at speeds that would rip people apart. Streams of temperature and cold increase and fall in designs more than any living thing. Clouds bloom and fall like feelings overweight to hold.

And through it all, the air keeps its silence.

But silence is not the same as absence.

The air remembers.

Every fireplace that burnt a forest to the ground, every eruption that dark the day with ash, every storm that flooded towns and etched streams into stone — the air bears every one of it. Ash from volcanoes that erupted before humans existed however drifts in their upper layers. Dust from deserts nearly around the world moves on the breeze to seed clouds around remote oceans. Even the air you are breathing today once transferred through the lungs of mammoths, dinosaurs, and animals older still.

It keeps all it. Patiently. Quietly.

We study the sky. We introduction satellites to pierce its secrets, calculate winds, track storms, and predict rain. We think we realize it.

But we are wrong.

We only ever glimpse the surface.

You will find evenings when the silence feels major — the sort of stop that pushes on your own chest, the stillness before lightning tears open the dark. Even the chickens fall mute. Actually the bugs pause. That quiet thinks strategic, ancient, as although whole air is waiting.

And then it produces every thing it had been holding.

Magic sheets over the land. Winds scream through valleys and across oceans. Water hammers the ground so violently that it erases noise itself. We contact it chaos. Nevertheless the sky?

The atmosphere is merely letting go.

The sky has seen things we can't imagine.

It viewed meteors strike openings in to the planet, viewed oceans freeze into glass and deserts blossom wherever none must exist. It has moved the smoke of using worlds and the whispers of civilizations long gone. It's listened to every term we've ever talked upward, every song, every prayer, every determined cry — and solved with silence.

Possibly that's why we check out it frequently for meaning.

We read omens in the jobs of stars, in the styles of clouds, in the arc of the moon. We find ease in sunrises and closing in sunsets. Nevertheless the air does not arrange it self for us.

It simply is.

And today, the air is changing.

We have filled it with items that don't belong. Smoke. Carbon. Chemicals. Light. We've turned their blue haze paler, dirtier. We've punched openings in their shield, allowing the sun's radiation through. We have stuck their temperature, making their storms angrier, its droughts longer, its winters and summers harder to predict.

And still, the atmosphere does not speak.

But it's answering.

Its storms cut greater now. Winds achieve farther and grab harder. Fires burn up larger as the air it self is now hungrier. Droughts remain until the land cracks. Floods increase greater than they actually did before.

We do not require words to understand what is happening.

The atmosphere is showing us.

There may come each day when the atmosphere forgets us completely.

When the lights of our towns diminish, once the smoking of our devices drifts away, once the wind sweeps across mountains that have swallowed our ruins. Clouds can get over lands wherever number roads remain. Water can fall on floor that has removed our names.

And the atmosphere will still be here, holding our dirt and breath and fragments in the same way it holds every thing else.

We will turn into a storage flattened in to its silence.

But there's beauty in that.

Because the air is not our enemy. It's the breath of the world, the gentle that warms us, the guard that holds living in. It cradles every chicken in flight, every drifting seed, every birth and dusk. It is the first thing we see when we open our eyes and the last point we see when we shut them forever.

Perhaps its stop isn't indifference.

Probably it's listening.

Next time you stage external at night, stop. Look up.

See the stars using light-years away, their mild older than history. See the clouds glowing faintly in the moonlight, the same clouds which have drifted over numerous lives before yours. Feel the thin veil of air splitting up you from the cold cleaner of space.

And understand: you are portion with this history too.

The atmosphere will never let you know its secrets.

It will not explain the storms, the droughts, the warmth, the cold.

But if you're still enough, if you should be calm enough, you might feel it.

The huge, individual presence above you.

The hush prior to the lightning.

The endless memory of air and light.

The air does not need words.

Since it never stopped watching.