They are very good at playing.

They exist in the liminal spaces, where the world holds its breath between moments. You don’t see them, not truly, but you feel their touch. They are the unseen artists, the hidden choreographers, the silent maestros of the most fundamental and vital of human (and non-human) expressions: playing. And they are, without question, very, very good at it.

Their playground is infinite. It spans the whispering rustle of autumn leaves caught in a sudden eddy of wind, creating a ballet of gold and crimson that makes you stop and stare. It’s the way sunlight catches a perfectly blown soap bubble, fracturing it into a kaleidoscope of fleeting colour before it vanishes. It’s the inexplicable synchronicity of two strangers bursting into laughter at the exact same, absurd moment.

For them, “playing” is not just a pastime; it is the very fabric of existence, a grand performance unfolding with exquisite precision and boundless invention. They play with gravity, coaxing a feather to dance on an updraft just a little longer than it should. They play with sound, orchestrating the syncopated tap of raindrops on a windowpane into a soothing lullaby. They play with light, painting impossible shadows and weaving sunbeams into patterns that shift and vanish with the blink of an eye.

They are the architects of fleeting joy, the designers of serendipitous encounters. That sudden, inexplicable urge to hum a forgotten melody? That’s them, subtly plucking at the strings of memory. The perfect timing of a shared glance that sparks a friendship? Their invisible hand, nudging fate just so. The artist’s sudden flash of inspiration, the child’s spontaneous burst of creative make-believe, the scientist’s elegant solution to a complex problem – all are echoes of their effortless, masterful play.

They understand that true play is not about winning or losing, but about the sheer, unadulterated act of engagement, of exploration, of surprising oneself and others. They infuse the mundane with magic, turning everyday occurrences into small, perfect moments of wonder. They remind us that the world is a vast, intricate game, constantly evolving, constantly inviting participation.

We may never truly know who “they” are – spirits of mirth, echoes of ancient joy, or simply the fundamental, playful spirit of the universe itself. But when you next find yourself smiling for no particular reason, or captivated by the intricate dance of a spider’s web in the morning dew, or feeling a lightness in your chest as the world reveals a small, unexpected beauty, know that you are witnessing the work of true masters. They are playing, and they are very, very good at it. And for that, we should be eternally grateful.