those pathetic rock piles they call "mountains." I go to
that world sometimes to see what they are doing, and to see if they have any
recollection of what brought them here. They don't know. It was a drawing for
them, and they arrived, and they believed it to be their own will that brought
them here, that trapped them in this backwater of the galaxy.
There is much to be said for backwaters, though. I myself often find
comfort in visiting places others avoid. More often than not, there is a cool
darkness awaiting, a moistness like the air after a rain shower beneath a
moonlit sky. The typical individual finds such darkness uncomfortable.
That is because they do not understand.
Darkness is a friend, an ally. Darkness allows us to understand others,
to see what they value when they believe no one else is looking. It allows us
to be honest with ourselves, to express those values that we would disavow in
the light. The light blinds us. It is only in the dark that we see clearly,
and there is a great dark hidden among these worlds.
I had thought that the darkness would be here, beneath the frozen sands.
Cold frightens the foolish just as certainly as dark, and the two go together.
But as the world begins to thaw, as the kaluthin finally take root, I am
finding that there is no more darkness here than that which I find wherever I
go. This world has never known life at more than a microscopic level. That can
change. This world has never known progress that did not involve the shifting
of sands as the winds whipped up and the planet slowly spun on its axis. That,
too, can change.
I like the dark and the cold. I like that the suns are so far away. I