Tonight walking out to my car, the fireflies did their best to act as stars, taking advantage of the cloud cover to make their own brand new constellations, with lightning and just a hint of remaining dusk creating, for just a moment, every few minutes, an image not unlike distant nebulae as a backdrop.
The world is beautiful, and it is beautiful regardless of whether we notice it.
The world doesn't care about us. It doesn't paint the sky in the hopes of making a living off the framed and matted print. It doesn't sculpt driftwood to make the building of an osprey's nest easier. It doesn't regulate the orbit of spheres to give a mathematician joy. The world is beautiful and it has always been beautiful and it will always be beautiful. But I sure hope, selfishly, that its beauty will contain fireflies for a good long while yet.
The world doesn't care about us. It doesn't paint the sky in the hopes of making a living off the framed and matted print. It doesn't sculpt driftwood to make the building of an osprey's nest easier. It doesn't regulate the orbit of spheres to give a mathematician joy. The world is beautiful and it has always been beautiful and it will always be beautiful. But I sure hope, selfishly, that its beauty will contain fireflies for a good long while yet.
Here's a Secret: I aspire to the selfishness that the world has in creating beauty.
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