Leonids and Fumerols
There you are. You stand upon the earth; formed of the same stuff, rooted to your source by the forces that wed your weight with its. Yet look up to the sky: there too, your matter is spangled and scattered. You are born of the air and of the earth and exist in one blithe, bright moment between the comets and the core.
And what propels you forward? What moves your hand and fires your brain? What impels you to create? Does it come from inside, having churned in the hot, dark depths and pushed its way up, out, cooling as it surfaces? Or does it come from outside, from the frigid, silent beyond, rushing and raining down on you in blazing streaks of fire?
You are hurtled onward at 367 miles per second and yet you stand still, on a thin, green crust, between a seething sea of magma and a circling storm of ice and rock.
Here you are.