What the unseen remembers
We move through life as if it were solid.
But it’s not—it’s mist,
a dream shaped only by the stories we agree to tell.
Yet all around us, the unseen speaks.
Not with words—
but with pauses, with presence, with moments we overlook.
The father who sits at the edge of a hospital bed,
holding the hand of someone he knows is slipping away—
trying to memorize their warmth
before it becomes a memory.
The dog who curls beside a pair of worn boots,
still guarding the scent of someone who never returned.
The grasshopper, motionless beneath a dying sun,
aware of everything and nothing—
alive in a silence we will never name.
—
So much of existence whispers just outside our range.
A billion windows of experience—
not sealed,
just unseen.
The cries of extinct creatures swallowed by time.
The scent of a forest that no longer exists.
The rhythm of a civilization lost without a trace,
their kindnesses never documented,
their rituals turned to dust beneath uncaring stars.
And what of the acts of love by beings without voice?
The crow who lays food beside its dying mate.
The elephant who lingers where a sibling once stood.
The cat who chooses to stay—long after you’ve stopped asking it to.
—
We are not the center. We are simply witnesses.
But we forget.
The veil settles.
The days blur.
And we begin to think only what is named can be real.
Only what is remembered can be sacred.
But there are truths—
soft, unmeasured,
tender beyond language—
that pass through time unseen,
like wind brushing the back of the world.
They are not less real.
They are not less holy.
They are simply quiet.
Think of the children who dreamed in silence,
never telling the world what they saw—
…because the world was too loud to listen.
What became of their visions?
Were they swallowed, or do they still echo,
folded into the fabric of reality like stars beneath the ocean?
There are acts of love that occurred without audience,
moments of courage no history ever bothered to record.
Like the dying animal who curled around its young, its final pocket of warmth.
Like the wounded soul who stayed alive
just long enough to whisper something kind.
—
Even now, the earth is filled with things that go unnoticed:
A falling leaf brushing the skin of a stone.
A fox staring into the dark, still as myth.
A nameless figure passing a stranger a coin, never speaking.
And who’s to say that coin wasn’t the turning point of a life?
We don’t know.
And maybe we never will.
But that’s the point, isn’t it?
—
To live as if every moment holds a story worth reverence.
To walk as if the ground beneath you remembers,
even if no one else does.
To believe that maybe,
just maybe,
the unseen is sacred.
The Cosmics 