Where the Earth Hides Its Voice

Beneath our legs, anything historical listens. It generally does not speak in language or designs, in the low sound of tectonic plates, in the gradual drift of continents, in the way sources explore the night without eyes. We go across its epidermis, never knowing how serious its storage runs. Every feed of sand has damaged from the mountain. Every decline of rain was when element of a surprise nobody remembers. The Earth remembers every thing — it just doesn't talk it aloud.

Its voice is concealed alone — the type of stop that echoes. You are able to experience it once the wind dies and the trees stand entirely still. You can hear it in the stillness following mastery, when even birds seem to pause. This silence is not empty. It is saturated in thought, complete of age, packed with presence. The Planet isn't calm because it's asleep. It is quiet because it's hearing — to us, to the atmosphere, to itself.

We are loud. We fill the air with engines, sirens, sounds, audio, machines. But none of the sound basins in to the ground. The World concentrates perhaps not with ears but with patience. It waits for what comes after our sound — what remains when our structures fall, when our signs diminish, once the satellites burn up in top of the sky. And when the period comes, it will still be here — however turning, still blooming in places unmarked, still whispering in ways just the wind and the sources may hear.

We think of Earth as strong, as unmoving, as anything we stay on. But it's more than that. It is a human body — alive, moving, breathing in time too slow for all of us to see. It doesn't shout, it does not beg. It endures. And for the reason that calm stamina lies an electrical much greater than fire or ton: the power of something that's nothing to prove. Anything that's presently lasted the beginning of the Planet, the death of woods, the stop after meteors.

This is not only land. It's not only stone and water. It is just a keeper. A cradle. A memory that does not forget. Somewhere strong under, underneath the stress and rock, it however murmurs the story of how all of it began.

But it won't reveal in words.

We should learn how to hear in silence.