In the Shadow of Soundless Winds

Beneath our feet, anything historical listens. It generally does not speak in language or symbols, but in the low hum of tectonic dishes, in the slow drift of continents, in the way sources investigate the darkness without eyes. We walk across their skin, never understanding how heavy its storage runs. Every feed of mud has broken from the mountain. Every decline of rain was once element of a surprise nobody remembers. The World remembers everything — it just does not speak it aloud.

Their style is concealed alone — the sort of stop that echoes. You are able to feel it when the wind dies and the woods stand totally still. You are able to hear it in the stillness following thunder, when actually chickens seem to pause. That stop isn't empty. It is packed with thought, whole old, packed with presence. The Planet is not calm because it's asleep. It's quiet since it is hearing — to people, to the sky, to itself.

We are loud. We load the air with engines, sirens, sounds, music, machines. But nothing of that noise sinks to the ground. The Earth listens perhaps not with ears but with patience. It waits for what comes after our sound — what stays when our houses drop, when our signals disappear, once the satellites burn out in the upper sky. And when that time comes, it it's still here — however turning, still blooming in places unmarked, however whispering in manners just the breeze and the sources may hear.

We think of Earth as strong, as unmoving, as something we stay on. But it is significantly more than that. It's a human body — alive, shifting, breathing in time too slow for us to see. It doesn't yell, it does not beg. It endures. And for the reason that quiet stamina lies an electric far more than fireplace or flood: the energy of anything that has nothing to prove. Anything that's currently survived the birth of the Planet, the death of forests, the stop after meteors.

This is simply not just land. It's not only rock and water. It is just a keeper. A cradle. A storage that doesn't forget. Somewhere deep under, underneath the stress and stone, it still murmurs the history of how it all began.

Nonetheless it won't ever inform us in words.

We should learn how to listen in silence.