The Still Mind of the Earth

Beneath our legs, something historical listens. It doesn't speak in language or representations, but in the lower hum of tectonic dishes, in the slow move of continents, in how sources examine the darkness without eyes. We go across its skin, never understanding how strong their memory runs. Every grain of mud has broken from the mountain. Every drop of rain was once element of a hurricane nobody remembers. Yet the World recalls everything — it really does not talk it aloud.

Their voice is concealed alone — the kind of silence that echoes. You are able to sense it once the breeze dies and the trees stand completely still. You can hear it in the stillness after magic, when also chickens appear to pause. This silence is not empty. It's full of thought, whole of age, packed with presence. The Earth is not quiet because it's asleep. It is calm since it's hearing — to us, to the atmosphere, to itself.

We're loud. We load the air with engines, sirens, voices, audio, machines. But nothing of the sound sinks in to the ground. The Earth concentrates maybe not with ears but with patience. It waits for what uses our noise — what stays when our houses drop, when our signals disappear, once the satellites burn out in top of the sky. And when the period comes, it will still be here — however turning, still blooming in areas unmarked, still whispering with techniques only the breeze and the sources can hear.

We consider Earth as strong, as unmoving, as a thing we live on. But it's significantly more than that. It's a human anatomy — alive, shifting, breathing in time also slow for us to see. It doesn't shout, it does not beg. It endures. And because quiet endurance lies a power far greater than fire or flood: the power of anything that's nothing to prove. Anything that has presently lasted the beginning of the Planet, the demise of woods, the stop after meteors.

This isn't just land. It is not only steel and water. It is just a keeper. A cradle. A storage that doesn't forget. Anywhere serious below, underneath the pressure and stone, it still murmurs the story of how all of it began.

But it will never tell us in words.

We should figure out how to hear in silence.