🪶 Introduction
Sometimes it seems to me that people are just different planets.
On some, everything revolves around guilt,
on others — around logic,
and on mine there is a cat.
She’s full of cream and is sitting on the roof,
looking like someone who can fly,
but doesn’t consider it necessary to prove it.
I think if sensitivity had the form —
she would purr.
We teach a child not to imagine.
“Don’t make things up. It’s just a shadow, just wind, just sound.”
We trim his antennas
until only facts remain.Then he grows up
and sees only what can be proven.We say: “You’ve become so dry, you don’t feel anything.”
But he’s just learned
to live in a world
where you’re not allowed to hear color
or believe that silence purrs.
On my planet,
people don’t live — they resonate.
The ground hums,
the air shivers with the memory of light.
And somewhere above the roofs,
a cat sits,
full of cream and afternoon.
She looks as if she could fly,
but chooses not to —
out of respect for gravity.
She sees color as sound,
sound as movement,
movement as breath.
Nothing here is still.
Everything is a transition —
a frequency,
a wave,
a pause between two kinds of silence.
She is not a cat,
but an antenna
covered in fur and patience,
listening to the shape of wind,
tasting the sound of dawn.
When she blinks,
a small city forgets its sadness.
When she yawns,
a galaxy folds its wings.
When she purrs,
the spectrum shifts.
I live beneath her shadow,
trying to learn her language —
how to move without disturbing,
how to see without naming,
how to be alive
without explanation.
If someone asks
whether there is life beyond Earth —
I’ll say:
yes.
She’s sitting on the roof again,
radiating quiet,
and pretending
she doesn’t know
she’s the sky.
If sensitivity were a planet —
what sound would yours make?
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