Where the Mountains Breathe in Echoes

Beneath our feet, anything ancient listens. It doesn't talk in language or representations, but in the lower hum of tectonic dishes, in the gradual move of continents, in how roots examine the night without eyes. We walk across their skin, never understanding how deep their memory runs. Every grain of sand has damaged from a mountain. Every drop of rain was after section of a hurricane nobody remembers. Yet the Earth recalls every thing — it just does not speak it aloud.

Its style is hidden alone — the sort of stop that echoes. You are able to experience it once the wind dies and the trees stand fully still. You are able to hear it in the stillness following mastery, when actually birds seem to pause. That stop isn't empty. It's full of believed, whole of age, saturated in presence. The World is not quiet since it's asleep. It is quiet since it is hearing — to us, to the atmosphere, to itself.

We are loud. We fill the air with engines, sirens, sounds, audio, machines. But none of this noise 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 buildings fall, when our signs diminish, when the satellites burn out in the top of sky. And when that point comes, it it's still here — however turning, still blooming in places unmarked, still whispering in manners just the breeze and the roots may hear.

We consider World as strong, as unmoving, as a thing we stay on. But it is significantly more than that. It is a human anatomy — living, moving, breathing over time also slow for us to see. It doesn't scream, it does not beg. It endures. And for the reason that quiet strength lies a power far greater than fire or ton: the power of anything that has nothing to prove. Something that's previously survived the beginning of the Planet, the death of forests, the stop after meteors.

This isn't just land. It's not just rock and water. It is really a keeper. A cradle. A storage that does not forget. Anywhere strong under, under the stress and stone, it however murmurs the history of how it all began.

However it will never inform us in words.

We must figure out how to hear in silence.