This one is a little different from the ones I’ve written before. Trying to be all serious and deep here. So I don’t know, humour me?
The Earth, with its blanket of breathable, magical air exists in this vacuum of incomprehensible darkness that knows no ends or beginnings. The curious, colourful rock lives quietly with its eccentric and slightly odd inhabitants, radiant in its confused elegance that the darkness cannot engulf. It seems to be almost amused and wide eyed as it looks at the nothingness around it. Wondering. Thinking.
There is evil and pain and fear that lurks in every dark ally and yet the Universe itself is utterly black, with sparkling stars mocking us from distances that our tiny brains cannot fathom, beckoning us to worlds better left unknown and making us realise how small a ratio to the great big world we form.
Eternities are shrouded in purple cloaks, and we can hardly do anything about them. There are not many things we can count on.
The atmosphere, however, is always there. The quilt of comfort, warmth and safety, veiling the black mysteries of the beyond from the little bustling world that we know of. It filters light enough to not blind us, it gives us air enough to not choke us, it is almost like the bubble of reassurance we build around ourselves to get through reality every day and every night. It separates us from the terrible Out There and saves us from our own terrible fears.
A lot can be said about this world, and with everything discovered and lost, above and below, known and unknown, it is not difficult to see that our race may one day be driven mad to the cows.
But as vast and mind-boggling is the cosmos, our earth with its light, airy protector is where life is and our minds with their invisible, imaginary bubbles are where we are. Just getting by. Day by day.
It is such a curious thing that great lives are wasted without the simplest of realisations, that knowledge is dangerous, lethal even, and sometimes, ignorance and delusion are the things that make us cross the bridge. Just sometimes.
What is hope when all is known, anyway?