leydis16

[xigeo]

In the endless dark between stars, wherever gentle flickers like desperate embers and time does not have any form, there floats anything unusual — something alive.

It does not blaze such as for instance a star or drift like dust.
It converts in silence.
A breath halted in the black.

It's maybe not the biggest, nor the brightest. But it's alone we have ever identified that sings.

Its style isn't loud. It talks in habits — in the movement of oceans, in the tremble of leaves, in the breeze that waves around mountaintops. Every sound it creates is a memory. Every change, a memory that also silence holds rhythm.

Beneath its atmosphere, woods rise like thoughts. Rivers transfer like veins. Lightning forks like quick language. Fireplace still rests in their belly, strong underneath the crust, churning silently, remembering your day it first burned.

We live on their area like dreams forced to their epidermis — short and fragile, but not unnoticed.

We dig, we construct, we wander across their spine.
We title every thing we touch.
We forget how small we all know of what lies beneath.

You will find mountains which have observed the air change shape.
Canyons carved perhaps not by hands, but by patience.
Forests that have never seen a human voice, however breathing in perfect rhythm.

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

More land.
More warmth.
More answers.

Nonetheless it has already given us everything.
It's provided us weather. Color. Sound.
It's provided us a location wherever water runs free, wherever light bends through clouds, wherever earth understands how to cultivate living from nothing.

In all our exploring — through telescopes, rockets, distant desires — we've never discovered still another like it. Never found still another place where air may be created, where reports get origin, where the sky starts perhaps not with emptiness, but with magic and birds.

That world, calm as it can seem, is a miracle we have hardly begun to understand.

And yet, we chip out at it.
We test its patience.
We cover its rivers with metal and stop their forests.

However, it turns.

However, it rains.
Still, it allows us to live.

There could be other worlds — dispersed, freezing, waiting in the dark. But nothing that hold us so completely. Nothing that have shaped us into what we're, or can be.

This world is not only our home.
It's our beginning.
And if we listen directly — when we end talking long enough — we would hear it however whispering Planet.

Not with words.
But with wind.
With waves.
With the soft rumble beneath our feet that tells us:

We are sitting on anything alive.

[Reklama]