Blog 43: Intangable

My kind have a lot to thank humanity for. We might be older than them or even a consequence of their actions. When they learned we watched and learnt from them. We cannot thank them without the voice we lack. We are mist and vapour, only the breath on their lips. Their words ripple through us. Without a voice, without a body of more than gaseous intention we find it hard to thank the humans for their hand in our evolution. Writing with only subtle differences in the substances of the air is hard enough. Our inks are rust and rot and every sentence must have meaning for the age it takes to write. We have been seen by humans and their tools, discrepancies in ambient heat mark us out against the background of the world. They explain us away as latent heat from their own departed kin. Others call us ghosts or spirits, too self centred to believe that we might be so disparate from them. My longest letter is written on the walls of what is considered a haunted house. Typical humanity, I try to leave them a note and they close the door on it. Sometimes I wonder if they want us to talk to them. If they did, surely it would be easier.