I spent my days wandering the farm, my senses always alert to the ebb and flow of life around me. The world, at least here, was simple—a patch of earth and sky, stretching out like a canvas waiting to be painted with the brushstrokes of the seasons.
Each day brought its own rhythm, its own set of sights, sounds, and smells. The low hum of the animals, the rustling of the wind through the tall grasses, the smell of fresh earth after a rain—everything had its place, its own quiet meaning. It felt as though everything on the farm was alive, not just in a physical sense but in a way that spoke of balance, of harmony.
The animals, at first a source of fascination, soon became less interesting. I could speak to them. The cows, the chickens, the occasional sheep—each had their own way of being, their own forms of communication, but it wasn't the kind of conversation I had hoped for.
Their words were simple, the gestures of their bodies almost mechanical in their predictability. There was no depth in their understanding of the world, no probing questions or complex thoughts. They existed—without doubt, without regret—and that, in itself, was something I both admired and found strangely unsettling. Their lives were built on routine, and they seemed so entirely content with it.
But it was too simple.
I had tried to reach beyond the surface, to bridge the gap between us, but our communication was like trying to speak to a stone. My voice was a puzzle they could never solve, and their responses, though kind, were empty in a way that left me feeling detached.
I began to wonder if I had been wrong to expect more from creatures whose very existence was tied to instinct, to survival, to the beat of the earth beneath their hooves.
So, I retreated further into myself. The farm was vast, and though it may not have been filled with the kind of conversation I sought, it offered a different kind of solace. The wide, open fields were my sanctuary now. The crops swayed gently in the wind, the rustling of the stalks soft like whispers of an ancient secret.
I would sit in the tall grass, hidden from view, and simply watch—watch as the clouds drifted across the sky, watch as the farmers worked tirelessly, hands rough from years of labour, their faces marked by the sun and the wear of time.
There was something comforting in the way they moved, something comforting in their struggle. They weren't perfect, but they were real, and that was all that mattered.
The wind was my constant companion. It would blow in off the hills, carrying with it the smell of damp earth after the rain, or the scent of the distant forest, or even the saltiness of the air from the nearby river.
I'd follow its whispers, letting it lead me to places I hadn't yet discovered—old barns where the rafters creaked under the weight of forgotten years, or hidden corners of the farm where the wildflowers bloomed in bright bursts of colour, a stark contrast to the deep greens and browns of the land.
The wind had a way of sweeping through the farm as if it had a life of its own, teasing the leaves and bending the grass like a gentle hand.
And the sky...
The sky was where I found my peace. The stars here were different—brighter, sharper, more alive than anything I'd seen before. The night had a depth to it, an infinite quality that both awed and humbled me. The vast expanse of black above, filled with the glimmer of distant stars, felt both comforting and overwhelming. The dark was no longer a suffocating void, as it had been on my home planet, but a canvas painted with the quiet light of distant worlds.
Every evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, I would find a high spot on the farm—the top of a fencepost, or the peak of the barn roof—and simply sit there, watching the sky change. The world below would grow softer, the edges of everything blurring as the daylight waned and the shadows stretched long across the fields. The horizon would turn to gold, then burn to deep orange, then soften into rich purples and blues. The light would retreat, leaving behind a faint glow on the earth below, as if the land itself were still holding onto the day.
And then, slowly, the stars would emerge—one by one at first, like shy fireflies, until the whole sky was ablaze with their light. I would tilt my head back and simply breathe it all in, the cool night air filling my lungs, the soft rustling of the trees and the distant chirps of crickets filling the silence. I would watch as shooting stars streaked across the sky, their trails brief but bright—burning like fleeting memories. And in those moments, I couldn't help but feel a sense of something larger than myself, something infinite and untouchable, that had always been there but that I could never fully comprehend.
The stars were like the stories of old—each one holding a secret, each one a light in the vastness of time and space. I wondered if they had always been there, waiting for me to see them. Or had they only begun to shine since I arrived?
At times, I would lose myself in the immensity of it all. The universe, in all its boundless complexity, was full of mysteries beyond my understanding. There were questions that would never have answers, mysteries that would remain unsolved. And yet, as I gazed up at the stars, I realized that perhaps that was okay. Perhaps the true beauty of the world wasn't in knowing everything, but in accepting that there were some things that could not be understood, some questions that didn't need to be answered.
It reminded me of the world I had come from, a place where everything was tainted by complexity and the ceaseless striving for knowledge. There, the more I learned, the more I realized how little I knew. My home planet was a broken place, full of intelligent creatures who had once reached for the stars, only to tear their own world apart in the process. There, intelligence had become a curse, a weapon used to manipulate, to control, to destroy.
Here, though, things were different. Simplicity had its own power. The animals, the farmers, the fields—they were all a part of something much bigger than themselves, a cycle that had existed long before they were born, and would continue long after they were gone. There was beauty in that. There was peace in knowing that not everything had to be understood, not every question had to be answered.
As I sat there, gazing up at the stars, I thought about the nature of life. What if, in the end, it wasn't about intellect or progress? What if it was about living simply, in tune with the world around us, accepting our place in the grand scheme of things? What if the cows were right, simply living their days, grazing in the fields, unaware of the struggles and complexities of life?
If only creatures like them existed, would there be war? Would there be anger, fear, and regret? Or would the world be a place of pure contentment, of peace, where the only concern was the next blade of grass to nibble on, the next patch of sun to lie in?
It was a thought that lingered in my mind, a paradox I couldn't quite solve. The more I thought about it, the more I realised that maybe there was something beautiful in the simplicity of life, something powerful in living without the burden of knowledge or the weight of expectation.
The intelligent creatures of my home world had built towering cities, created magnificent technologies, and achieved feats beyond imagination. But in the process, they had forgotten the one thing that truly mattered: how to live in harmony with the world around them. They had sought to control nature, to bend it to their will, and in doing so, they had lost the very connection that made life worth living.
A paradox where intelligence is stupidity and stupidity is intelligence.
Here, in the quiet of the night, with the wind whispering through the trees and the stars shining above, I realised something important. It wasn't about what I knew or what I could achieve. It was about being. About existing in this moment, free from the distractions of the world, free from the weight of knowledge. Just as the animals lived without worry, so too could I, in my own way.
And for the first time in a long while, I felt a sense of peace. I was no longer concerned with the complexities of the world or the mysteries I couldn't solve. I had found my place, in this quiet farm, beneath the stars, and I was content. In this world of simplicity, I had found something far greater than answers. I had found peace.
And that, I realised, was enough.