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The atmosphere looks endless, does not it? A smooth orange cover by time, a glittering infinity by night. But you can find moments — rare, calm moments — when it feels alive. Once the stars develop from the blackness, when the breeze breaks, and you feeling that the entire air is holding its breath.

And in these instances, you understand the reality: the air is watching.

However it will never speak.

We imagine the atmosphere as a void, bare and silent. However it's such a thing but empty. Above people stretches a restless ocean of air and mild, swirling with hidden Planet currents. Winds shout around the world at rates that will split us apart. Streams of temperature and cool increase and fall in designs over the age of any residing thing. Clouds bloom and collapse like ideas fat to hold.

And through it all, the sky keeps its silence.

But stop is not similar as absence.

The air remembers.

Every fire that burned a forest to the floor, every eruption that darkened the day with ash, every hurricane that flooded cities and carved streams in to rock — the atmosphere carries most of it. Ash from volcanoes that erupted before humans existed still drifts in their upper layers. Dust from deserts almost around the globe trips on the breeze to seed clouds over distant oceans. Also the air you're breathing today when passed through the lungs of mammoths, dinosaurs, and animals older still.

It maintains all it. Patiently. Quietly.

We study the sky. We introduction satellites to pierce their techniques, evaluate winds, monitor storms, and predict rain. We believe we realize it.

But we are wrong.

We only actually view the surface.

There are nights when the stop feels large — the sort of silence that pushes on your own chest, the stillness before lightning tears start the dark. Actually the chickens fall mute. Even the insects pause. That quiet feels deliberate, ancient, as although entire atmosphere is waiting.

And then it produces every thing it absolutely was holding.

Thunder moves across the land. Winds scream through valleys and across oceans. Rain hammers the bottom so violently that it erases noise itself. We contact it chaos. Nevertheless the atmosphere?

The air is just allowing go.

The sky has seen things we can not imagine.

It viewed meteors punch holes into the world, watched oceans freeze into glass and deserts blossom wherever none should exist. It's moved the smoke of using sides and the whispers of civilizations long gone. It's paid attention to every term we have ever spoken upward, every song, every prayer, every eager cry — and answered with silence.

Perhaps that's why we look to it frequently for meaning.

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

It just is.

And now, the atmosphere is changing.

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

And still, the sky doesn't speak.

But it's answering.

Their storms cut greater now. Winds reach further and split harder. Fires burn higher since the air itself is becoming hungrier. Droughts remain before the soil cracks. Floods increase higher than they actually did before.

We do not need phrases to understand what is happening.
The sky is featuring us.

There may come per day when the atmosphere forgets people completely.

When the lights of our towns fade, once the smoking of our machines drifts out, once the wind sweeps across mountains which have swallowed our ruins. Clouds can gather around lands where number highways remain. Water may drop on ground that has cleared our names.

And the atmosphere will still be here, carrying our dirt and air and fragments in the same way it bears every thing else.

We will develop into a storage flattened in to their silence.

But there is beauty in that.

Since the sky isn't our enemy. It is the air of the world, the gentle that warms us, the guard that keeps life in. It cradles every chicken in journey, every drifting seed, every start and dusk. It's the very first thing we see when we open our eyes and the past issue we see once we close them forever.

Perhaps their silence is not indifference.
Probably it's listening.

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

Start to see the stars using light-years out, their mild more than history. Start to see the clouds great faintly in the moonlight, exactly the same clouds that have drifted over numerous lives before yours. Have the thin veil of air splitting up you from the cool cleaner of space.

And realize: you are portion with this history too.

The atmosphere won't tell you its secrets.
It won't explain the storms, the droughts, the warmth, the cold.

But if you're however enough, if you are calm enough, you may sense it.

The substantial, patient existence over you.
The hush prior to the lightning.
The endless memory of air and light.

The air does not require words.

Because it never stopped watching.