xigekey
492 posts
Jul 29, 2025
10:51 PM
|
The hold generally results, but it never earnings the same. Twice every day, it techniques in and out just like a Air, sweeping across the shore with a flow older than language. It touches the rocks, the sand, the roots of the mangroves, and then retreat and come again. But as it moves, it takes items of the planet with it — cereals of mud, bits of layer, parts of storage — carrying them out to the areas we cannot see.
We watch the tide rise and fall and imagine that we understand it, that it's a simple exchange between sea and shore. But what we see is the surface. Underneath the water, the tide drags whole sides with it. It pulls at the roots of underwater forests, it sweeps around concealed canyons, it whispers through the wrecks of ships and the bones of things that never made it home. It's been moving like this since well before we stood at the edge of the ocean, and it'll carry on long after we are gone.
Every hold is really a memory. It bears with it the dust of vanished hills, the ash of historical fires, the pollen of plants that bloomed a lot of years ago. It recalls the fun of young ones enjoying at the shoreline, the fat of storms that have drowned cities, the comments of sailors who cried out for support as their ships were drawn under. But it doesn't tell these experiences aloud. It keeps them close, folding them deeper to the water every time it retreats.
The tides are shaped by the moon — that pale wanderer over people that's never touched the planet earth, yet controls the side of each ocean. The moon pulls the water toward it because it groups the world, and the water obeys, growing and slipping with a patience we can not fathom. It is not a severe command, but a quiet tether, a note that also the biggest seas are bound to something beyond themselves. And for the reason that draw lies a memory also: the memory of some sort of without people, some sort of still small and molten, when the tides were even tougher since the moon was sooner, yanking tougher at the oceans.
We stand at the side of the sea and think the hold is predictable. We construct harbors and towns and walls, as though its rhythm is mine to master. However the hold hasn't truly belonged to us. It doesn't care for our calendars or our ports. It will delay provided that it should, as it has already waited longer than we are able to comprehend. It will return to declare what we construct, the same way it stated the footprints of those who stood on the shore before us.
Often, once the breeze is reduced and the water is peaceful, you can hear the hold talking — maybe not in words, in the hush of foam on mud, in the smooth crackle of sodium and stone. Its voice is quiet, however, not empty. It is a voice that understands a great deal to shout. It's observed woods drain beneath their fat and deserts bloom where oceans when lay. It's deleted whole coastlines having its slow patience. It has used secrets in its depths which will never be unearthed.
And yet, for many their silence, the wave gives. It styles the entire world as much as it will take from it. It produces vitamins to the shores, feeds countless animals, carves out estuaries and marshlands where new life can thrive. The wave is really a sculptor, removing stone and reshaping beaches one air at a time. Without it, the oceans might stagnate, the coasts would decline, and the entire world could develop still.
We're interested in the hold, though we rarely realize why. Children chase it because it retreats, then flee since it rushes back in. Adults stay at the edge of the sea all day, hearing, watching, emotion something stir inside them they can't name. There's anything eternal in the tide's beat, something which speaks to the portion people that recalls we originated from water Planet ago. Probably we're not so different from the grains of mud it carries. Perhaps we, too, are destined to be swept away, to become element of something vaster than ourselves.
Nevertheless the wave doesn't rush. It actions at its speed, never hurried, never uncertain. Even though storms rise and waves accident with the fury of the air, the tide is regular beneath it all. It understands that the turmoil may fade, that the winds can tire, and it it's still there, carrying the entire world quietly from one spot to Another.
We handle the sea as though it is split from people, like its rise and fall is something to concern or control. But the simple truth is that individuals are destined to it as firmly as it is likely to the moon. Its cycles are our cycles. Its memory is our memory. And whenever we dismiss it, we forget part of ourselves.
The wave is increasing higher now. Glaciers burn into their human anatomy, warming currents swell, and shorelines are pulled further inland than we've ever known. Some contact this change a problem, nevertheless the hold does not contact it any such thing at all. It's only returning the thing that was always its own. We see disaster; the tide sees only continuity.
There may come per day when the wave can throw on the destroys of our cities. It'll cradle the bones of links and the frames of systems just since it cradled barrier reefs and shipwrecks before. It'll work glass and metal into mud, spread our monuments in to parts so small they'll be moved to distant shores, unrecognizable. And extended next, the hold will still be going, still holding the storage of the entire world we created, still flip it greater to the water with each breath.
The tide does not require us. It doesn't require our agreement, our fear, our gratitude. It really techniques because it must. It is older than our language, more than our gods, older than the world we all know now. It recalls every earth that came before, and it will remember the sides which come after.
We will never know all that it carries. We can only stand at the shore, have the take at our legs, and know that people are part of anything we shall never really understand.
The tides won't tell us their secrets.
We must learn to be controlled by their silence
|
