You Will Never See the Sky the Same Way Again

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The atmosphere looks endless, doesn't it? A soft orange canopy by day, a glittering infinity by night. But you can find instances — unusual, calm instances — when it thinks alive. When the stars develop against the blackness, once the breeze breaks, and you feeling that the entire atmosphere is keeping their breath.

And in those minutes, you realize the reality: the sky is watching.

Nonetheless it won't ever speak.

We envision the air as an emptiness, empty and silent. However it is anything but empty. Above people extends a sleepless water of air and gentle, swirling with unseen Planet currents. Winds shout round the world at speeds that will rip us apart. Streams of temperature and cool increase and drop in habits more than any residing thing. Clouds blossom and collapse like thoughts too heavy to hold.

And through everything, the air keeps their silence.

But silence is different as absence.

The air remembers.

Every fireplace that burned a forest to the bottom, every eruption that stained the afternoon with ash, every storm that flooded towns and carved streams in to rock — the atmosphere holds all of it. Ash from volcanoes that erupted before people endured however drifts in its top layers. Dirt from deserts halfway around the world trips on the breeze to seed clouds over distant oceans. Even the air you're breathing today when transferred through the lungs of mammoths, dinosaurs, and animals older still.

It keeps most of it. Patiently. Quietly.

We study the sky. We start satellites to pierce its techniques, measure winds, monitor storms, and estimate rain. We think we understand it.

But we are wrong.

We just actually glimpse the surface.

There are nights when the stop thinks heavy — the type of silence that presses on your chest, the stillness before lightning tears start the dark. Also the chickens drop mute. Even the insects pause. That calm thinks purposeful, old, as although the entire atmosphere is waiting.

And then it produces every thing it had been holding.

Thunder sheets over the land. Winds scream through valleys and across oceans. Rain hammers the bottom so violently so it erases noise itself. We contact it chaos. However the sky?

The sky is merely letting go.

The atmosphere has seen things we cannot imagine.

It seen meteors strike holes to the planet, observed oceans freeze in to glass and deserts bloom where nothing must exist. It's moved the smoke of burning sides and the whispers of civilizations long gone. It's listened to every term we've ever spoken upward, every track, every prayer, every desperate cry — and answered with silence.

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

We study omens in the positions of stars, in the designs of clouds, in the arc of the moon. We seek comfort in sunrises and closing in sunsets. But the air doesn't prepare it self for us.

It really is.

And now, the atmosphere is changing.

We have stuffed it with things that do not belong. Smoke. Carbon. Chemicals. Light. We've made their blue haze paler, dirtier. We have punched holes in its guard, making the sun's radiation through. We have stuck its heat, making their storms angrier, its droughts lengthier, their winters and summers harder to predict.

And however, the atmosphere doesn't speak.

But it's answering.

Their storms cut greater now. Winds achieve farther and rip harder. Fires burn higher since the air itself has become hungrier. Droughts stay before the soil cracks. Floods rise more than they ever did before.

We don't need phrases to understand what is happening.

The sky is featuring us.

There will come per day when the air forgets us completely.

When the lights of our towns disappear, once the smoking of our models drifts away, once the breeze sweeps across mountains that have swallowed our ruins. Clouds will get around places where number roads remain. Water can fall on surface that's deleted our names.

And the atmosphere it's still here, holding our dust and air and fragments in the same way it bears everything else.

We shall develop into a memory flattened in to its silence.

But there is beauty in that.

Since the air is not our enemy. It is the breath of the planet, the light that warms us, the guard that supports life in. It cradles every chicken in journey, every drifting seed, every beginning and dusk. It's the very first thing we see whenever we open our eyes and the last thing we see whenever we shut them forever.

Probably their silence isn't indifference.

Perhaps it's listening.

The very next time you stage external through the night, stop. Look up.

See the stars using light-years out, their light more than history. See the clouds glowing faintly in the moonlight, the exact same clouds that have drifted around numerous lives before yours. Have the slim veil of air separating you from the cold vacuum of space.

And understand: you're part with this history too.

The air won't ever tell you its secrets.

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

But if you're however enough, if you are calm enough, you could experience it.

The large, patient existence over you.

The hush prior to the lightning.

The infinite storage of air and light.

The sky does not want words.

Because it has never ended watching.