The Patient Body of the World

Beneath our legs, something historical listens. It doesn't talk in language or representations, in the low sound of tectonic plates, in the slow move of continents, in the way roots investigate the darkness without eyes. We go across their epidermis, never understanding how serious their storage runs. Every wheat of mud has damaged from a mountain. Every decline of rain was when element of a surprise nobody remembers. Yet the Earth remembers every thing — it really does not speak it aloud.

Their style is concealed in silence — the sort of stop that echoes. You are able to experience it once the breeze dies and the trees stand entirely still. You are able to hear it in the stillness after magic, when even birds seem to pause. That silence is not empty. It is high in thought, full of age, filled with presence. The Earth is not calm since it is asleep. It is quiet since it is hearing — to people, to the air, to itself.

We are loud. We fill the air with engines, sirens, voices, audio, machines. But nothing of this noise basins into the ground. The World concentrates maybe not with ears but with patience. It waits for what employs our sound — what stays when our structures fall, when our signs fade, once the satellites burn out in top of the sky. And when that point comes, it will still be here — however turning, however blooming in places 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's more than that. It's a human anatomy — alive, moving, breathing over time also gradual for us to see. It doesn't shout, it doesn't beg. It endures. And in that calm strength lies a power far greater than fireplace or flooding: the energy of something that has nothing to prove. Anything that has already lasted the delivery of the Planet, the demise of woods, the silence following meteors.

This is not just land. It is not only stone and water. It is a keeper. A cradle. A memory that will not forget. Somewhere deep below, under the pressure and rock, it still murmurs the history of how it all began.

Nonetheless it won't ever tell us in words.

We should figure out how to listen in silence.