Histories of this world

The histories of this world are beyond our comprehension. There are fossils where the river has cut deep and now ripples sedately, her secrets in time, hers to hold and give, not to all those who seek, but those who wait to perceive.

There are forests which breathe, their trees holding grounds strong, their fungi a mesh we cannot fathom. There are rocks which have weathered storms and drizzles, met clouds so ancient that you can only write a number as an age, but you cannot perceive or feel how old that is.

There are silences, between the smell of the sea, the crashing ruckus of a waterfall, the hardness of the reefs, the taste of a tear, everything you see and don’t, and beyond.

In this world, we live as a mere blimp, yet we find a relevance in our own insignificance. Our violence, petulant, unforgiving, and selfishness towards ourselves and others. Those who have been here far before remain unmoved, flowing, breathing, knowing that we shall pass like others before, and the secrets those at the extremes of the universe only know, even as we are now here, stuck in our time, irrecoverably.

If only we can tame the light that does carry who we are to places beyond, if only we can see all those who were before, to know, to remember, to be.

The histories of this world are beyond our comprehension. We do not know time, nor the world. We do not know ourselves, or this place. All we have is a tiny memory deep within our minds, passed on from generation to generation, a yearning that we feel when we see the stars, immortal as stardust.

The light shines the brightest