Where Roots Hear in the Dark

Beneath our feet, anything historical listens. It generally does not speak in language or representations, however in the reduced hum of tectonic plates, in the slow drift of continents, in the manner sources explore the darkness without eyes. We go across its epidermis, never knowing how strong its storage runs. Every wheat of mud has broken from the mountain. Every drop of rain was when element of a surprise no-one remembers. Yet the Earth remembers every thing — it just does not talk it aloud.

Their style is hidden in silence — the kind of stop that echoes. You can experience it when the breeze dies and the woods stay fully still. You are able to hear it in the stillness after thunder, when actually birds appear to pause. That stop isn't empty. It is full of believed, full old, full of presence. The Earth is not calm because it is asleep. It is quiet since it's listening — to people, to the atmosphere, to itself.

We are loud. We load the air with engines, sirens, voices, audio, machines. But none of this noise sinks in to the ground. The Planet concentrates not with ears but with patience. It waits for what comes after our sound — what remains when our houses drop, when our signs disappear, once the satellites burn out in the top of sky. And when that time comes, it will still be here — however turning, still blooming in areas unmarked, however whispering in manners just the wind and the sources may hear.

We think of Planet as solid, as unmoving, as anything we live on. But it's more than that. It is a body — alive, shifting, breathing over time too gradual for people to see. It doesn't shout, it does not beg. It endures. And for the reason that calm stamina lies an electric much higher than fire or ton: the power of anything that has nothing to prove. Anything that's already lasted the beginning of the moon, the demise of woods, the stop after meteors.

This isn't just Planet. It's not only rock and water. It is really a keeper. A cradle. A memory that doesn't forget. Somewhere heavy below, underneath the force and stone, it still murmurs the story of how all of it began.

But it won't ever tell us in words.

We must learn to hear in silence.