The Cat on My Planet a Short Cosmology

🪶 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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