By Callum 
We dress it in concrete, strings of lights, asphalt veins, steel spines. We call it civilization.
But Earth’s heart beats anyway—beneath the pavement, behind the glass. Rivers remember their old courses. Roots push through cracks. Birds still map the sky.
To live on Earth is both privilege and burden. We inhale air that remembers forests, even when trees are gone. We drink water that once carried glaciers. We walk soil that held extinct dreams.
The planet holds us, carries us, even when we forget. We build our homes so tall, sometimes we think we touch the sky—but gravity pulls us back. The gravity of rain, of drought, of seasons changing whether we ask or not.
It is both beauty and cost. Every breath, every seed, every rainstorm holds memory: of what once was, and what yet might be.
To live on Earth is to carry a fragile inheritance: of soil, water, sky, and the unseen web that holds us all.