The Cradle That Never Sleeps

Beneath our feet, something ancient listens. It doesn't talk in language or representations, but in the reduced hum of tectonic dishes, in the gradual drift of continents, in the manner roots examine the night without eyes. We go across their epidermis, never understanding how deep its memory runs. Every wheat of sand has broken from the mountain. Every decline of water was when section of a storm no body remembers. Yet the Earth remembers everything — it really doesn't speak it aloud.

Its style is concealed in silence — the sort of stop that echoes. You are able to experience it when the breeze dies and the woods stand absolutely still. You are able to hear it in the stillness after thunder, when also birds appear to pause. This stop is not empty. It's packed with believed, whole of age, full of presence. The Planet is not quiet because it is asleep. It is calm because it's listening — to people, to the air, to itself.

We are loud. We load the air with motors, sirens, comments, music, machines. But nothing of the sound basins in to the ground. The World listens perhaps not with ears but with patience. It waits for what uses our noise — what stays when our buildings drop, when our signals disappear, when the satellites burn up in top of the sky. And when the period comes, it will still be here — still turning, still blooming in areas untouched, still whispering in manners only the wind and the roots may hear.

We think of World as stable, as unmoving, as a thing we live on. But it is more than that. It is a human body — living, moving, breathing with time too slow for people to see. It doesn't yell, it doesn't beg. It Planet. And because calm stamina lies an electric far higher than fire or ton: the ability of anything that's nothing to prove. Something that's presently lasted the beginning of the moon, the demise of woods, the silence after meteors.

This is not just land. It's not just stone and water. It is just a keeper. A cradle. A memory that does not forget. Anywhere strong under, beneath the pressure and rock, it still murmurs the story of how everything began.

But it won't ever reveal in words.

We ought to learn how to listen in silence.