Where the Earth Hides Its Voice

Beneath our feet, something old listens. It generally does not talk in language or designs, but in the lower sound of tectonic dishes, in the slow move of continents, in the manner sources explore the night without eyes. We go across its skin, never knowing how strong its memory runs. Every wheat of sand has broken from a mountain. Every decline of water was after section of a storm no-one remembers. Yet the Planet remembers every thing — it just doesn't 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 stay entirely still. You can hear it in the stillness following thunder, when also chickens appear to pause. This silence is not empty. It is filled with thought, complete old, full of presence. The World is not quiet since it is asleep. It's quiet since it's listening — to us, to the atmosphere, to itself.

We're loud. We load the air with engines, sirens, voices, music, machines. But nothing of that noise sinks in to the ground. The World listens perhaps not with ears but with patience. It waits for what employs our noise — what stays when our structures fall, when our signals fade, once the satellites burn up in the upper sky. And when the period comes, it it's still here — still turning, however blooming in places untouched, however whispering in manners just the wind and the roots may hear.

We think of Planet as stable, as unmoving, as a thing we live on. But it's a lot more than that. It's a human anatomy — alive, moving, breathing over time too slow for people to see. It does not scream, it does not beg. It endures. And in that calm stamina lies a power much more than fire or flood: the ability of anything that has nothing to prove. Anything that's currently lasted the start of the Planet, the death of woods, the stop following meteors.

This is simply not just land. It is not just rock and water. It is a keeper. A cradle. A storage that does not forget. Somewhere serious below, underneath the stress and stone, it still murmurs the story of how everything began.

Nonetheless it will never reveal in words.

We must learn how to hear in silence.