Where the Mountains Breathe in Echoes

Beneath our legs, something ancient listens. It doesn't speak in language or representations, in the reduced sound of tectonic dishes, in the gradual move of continents, in how sources investigate the night without eyes. We go across its epidermis, never understanding how heavy its storage runs. Every wheat of mud has damaged from a mountain. Every drop of water was after section of a surprise no body remembers. The Planet recalls every thing — it really doesn't speak it aloud.

Its style is concealed alone — the kind of silence that echoes. You are able to experience it once the wind dies and the woods stay completely still. You can hear it in the stillness following thunder, when even birds seem to pause. This stop is not empty. It is saturated in believed, whole of age, filled with presence. The Earth isn't calm since it is asleep. It is calm because it's hearing — to us, to the sky, to itself.

We're loud. We fill the air with motors, sirens, comments, music, machines. But none of this noise sinks into the ground. The Earth listens perhaps not with ears but with patience. It waits for what uses our sound — what stays when our houses drop, when our signs fade, when the satellites burn up in the top of sky. And when that point comes, it it's still here — however turning, however blooming in places unmarked, still whispering in ways only the breeze and the roots may hear.

We consider Planet as solid, as unmoving, as a thing we stay on. But it is a lot more than that. It is a human anatomy — living, shifting, breathing in time too gradual for us to see. It does not yell, it doesn't beg. It endures. And in that quiet energy lies an electrical far higher than fireplace or flood: the power of something that has nothing to prove. Anything that's already lasted the start of the Planet, the demise of forests, the silence following meteors.

This isn't just land. It is not just steel and water. It is a keeper. A cradle. A storage that does not forget. Somewhere deep under, underneath the pressure and stone, it still murmurs the history of how all of it began.

However it will never reveal in words.

We ought to learn how to hear in silence.