Where the Tides Hide Their Memory

The hold generally results, nonetheless it never returns the same. Twice daily, it movements in and out just like a breath, sweeping across the shore with a flow older than language. It touches the rocks, the sand, the sources of the mangroves, simply to escape and come again. But as it goes, it will take bits of the planet with it — grains of mud, items of layer, parts of storage — carrying them out to the areas we can not see.

We watch the wave increase and drop and envision that people realize it, that it's a straightforward trade between ocean and shore. But what we see is the surface. Underneath the water, the wave drags entire sides with it. It brings at the roots of underwater woods, it sweeps around concealed canyons, it whispers through the wrecks of boats and the bones of issues that never managed to get home. It has been going like this since well before we stood at the edge of the ocean, and it'll carry on Planet after we are gone.

Every wave is a memory. It holds with it the dust of faded hills, the ash of ancient shoots, the pollen of flowers that bloomed a thousand years ago. It recalls the fun of children playing at the shoreline, the weight of storms that have drowned cities, the sounds of sailors who cried out for help as their vessels were taken under. But it doesn't tell these reports aloud. It supports them close, folding them deeper into the water everytime it retreats.

The tides are shaped by the moon — that light wanderer over people that has never touched the earth, yet regulates the edge of every ocean. The moon draws the water toward it since it groups the planet, and the water obeys, climbing and slipping with a patience we cannot fathom. It is not a severe order, but a peaceful tether, a reminder that even the heaviest seas are bound to anything beyond themselves. And for the reason that take lies a storage too: the storage of a world without people, some sort of however young and molten, when the tides were actually tougher because the moon was closer, pulling tougher at the oceans.

We stand at the edge of the ocean and think the tide is predictable. We build harbors and cities and surfaces, like their beat is mine to master. However the tide never truly belonged to us. It does not care for our calendars or our ports. It'll wait as long as it should, as it has waited longer than we could comprehend. It will return to declare what we build, the same way it stated the footprints of people who stood on the shore before us.

Sometimes, once the breeze is reduced and the water is calm, you are able to hear the wave speaking — maybe not in phrases, but in the hush of foam on sand, in the soft crackle of salt and stone. Their style is calm, but not empty. It's a speech that understands a lot to shout. It's observed woods drain beneath its fat and deserts blossom wherever oceans once lay. It has cleared whole coastlines with its gradual patience. It's presented secrets in its depths that'll never be unearthed.

And however, for all its silence, the wave gives. It patterns the world as much as it takes from it. It delivers nutrients to the shores, feeds countless creatures, carves out estuaries and marshlands where new life can thrive. The hold is just a sculptor, smoothing rock and reshaping shores one breath at a time. Without it, the oceans could stagnate, the coasts might wither, and the entire world would develop still.

We are attracted to the hold, though we rarely understand why. Children pursuit it because it retreats, then flee as it rushes straight back in. Adults stay at the side of the sea for hours, listening, seeing, sensation anything stir included they can't name. There is something timeless in the tide's flow, something which talks to the portion of us that recalls we originated in water extended ago. Perhaps we are not so distinctive from the cereals of mud it carries. Possibly we, too, are meant to be swept out, to become section of anything vaster than ourselves.

But the wave does not rush. It techniques at its own pace, never hurried, never uncertain. Even if storms rise and dunes accident with the fury of the atmosphere, the tide is steady beneath it all. It understands that the chaos may diminish, that the winds will tire, and it it's still there, carrying the world gently from destination for a Another.

We handle the ocean as although it is separate from us, like their increase and fall is something to concern or control. But the truth is that we are bound to it as tightly because it is likely to the moon. Its rounds are our cycles. Their storage is our memory. And when we dismiss it, we overlook part of ourselves.

The hold is rising higher now. Glaciers dissolve in to their human body, heating currents enlarge, and shorelines are pulled farther inland than we've ever known. Some contact this change a disaster, but the hold doesn't contact it anything at all. It is only returning the thing that was generally its own. We see catastrophe; the wave sees just continuity.

There will come a day once the hold can throw within the destroys of our cities. It'll support the bones of connections and the frames of towers just as it cradled coral reefs and shipwrecks before. It will grind glass and steel into sand, scatter our monuments into pieces so small they'll be carried to distant shores, unrecognizable. And long after that, the wave will still be moving, still holding the storage of the entire world we created, still flip it deeper to the water with each breath.

The wave does not need us. It generally does not require our approval, our concern, our gratitude. It really moves as it must. It's avove the age of our language, more than our gods, older compared to planet we realize now. It recalls every earth that came before, and it'll recall the sides that can come after.

We shall never know all that it carries. We are able to just stay at the shore, feel the move at our legs, and know that we are section of anything we will never truly understand.

The tides won't tell us their secrets.

We must understand to be controlled by their stop