There is a language older by far and deeper than words. It is the language of bodies, of body on body, wind on snow, rain on trees, wave on stone. It is the language of dream, gesture, symbol, memory. We have forgotten this language. We do not even remember that it exists.
There is little difference between the currents of blood that flow through your veins, and the wind current, except that the one seems to be within you and the other without.
When the blood of your veins returns to the sea and the dust of your bones returns to the ground, maybe then will you remember that this earth does not belong to you, you belong to this earth.
Whether you more strongly feel the monumental significance of tiny things or the massive void between them depends on who you are, and how your brain chemistry is balanced at a particular moment. We walk around with miniature, emotional versions of the universe inside of us.
How many of those ancient points of light were the last echoes of suns now dead? How many have been born but their light not yet come this far? If all the suns but ours collapsed tonight, how many lifetimes would it take us to realize that we were alone?
"Mars has become a kind of mythic arena onto which we’ve projected our earthly hopes and fears. However, in our time, we’ve come to find that the real Mars is a world of wonders. […] We have sifted the sand of Mars, established a presence there, and fulfilled a century of dreams.” — Carl Sagan, Cosmos: Part 5 - Blues For a Red Planet