Guest
Guest
Jul 30, 2025
5:49 AM
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The tide always returns, nonetheless it never results the same. Twice daily, it moves in and out like a Air, significant across the shore with a flow older than language. It variations the rocks, the mud, the roots of the mangroves, simply to retire and come again. But as it moves, it will take items of the entire world with it — grains of mud, components of cover, pieces of memory — carrying them out to the places we can't see.
We view the hold rise and drop and imagine that people realize it, that it's a straightforward trade between water and shore. But what we see is the surface. Under the water, the wave drags whole sides with it. It pulls at the sources of marine forests, it sweeps around hidden canyons, it whispers through the crashes of ships and the bones of issues that never managed to get home. It's been going such as this because well before we stood at the edge of the ocean, and it'll continue long after we are gone.
Every wave is a memory. It bears with it the dirt of faded hills, the ash of old shoots, the pollen of plants that bloomed one thousand years ago. It remembers the laughter of young ones playing at the shoreline, the weight of storms that have drowned towns, the comments of sailors who cried out for help as their ships were taken under. But it generally does not inform these reports aloud. It supports them shut, folding them deeper into the water each time it retreats.
The tides are designed by the moon — that soft wanderer above us that's never touched the earth, however controls the edge of every ocean. The moon pulls the water toward it since it groups the world, and the water obeys, climbing and slipping with a patience we can not fathom. It's not just a severe command, but a peaceful tether, a reminder that also the biggest seas are destined to something beyond themselves. And because take lies a memory too: the memory of a world without us, a global still small and molten, when the tides were actually tougher as the moon was closer, taking harder at the oceans.
We stay at the edge of the sea and believe the wave is predictable. We construct harbors and towns and surfaces, as if their beat is mine to master. Nevertheless the hold never truly belonged to us. It generally does not look after our calendars or our ports. It'll delay as long as it should, as it has waited longer than we are able to comprehend. It'll go back to claim what we build, the exact same way it said the footprints of those who stood on the shore before us.
Occasionally, when the wind 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 smooth crackle of sodium and stone. Its style is calm, however not empty. It's a voice that knows too much to shout. It has seen forests sink beneath their fat and deserts blossom wherever oceans once lay. It has deleted whole coastlines having its slow patience. It's held strategies in their depths which will never be unearthed.
And however, for many its silence, the tide gives. It designs the planet as much as it requires from it. It produces nutritional elements to the shores, bottles numerous animals, carves out estuaries and marshlands wherever new living can thrive. The wave is a sculptor, smoothing stone and reshaping beaches one breath at a time. Without it, the oceans could stagnate, the coasts could decline, and the entire world could grow still.
We are interested in the wave, however we seldom understand why. Kids chase it since it retreats, then flee because it rushes back in. Adults sit at the side of the ocean for hours, hearing, seeing, emotion something stir included they can't name. There's anything endless in the tide's rhythm, something that speaks to the part of us that remembers we originated in water long ago. Possibly we are not too different from the cereals of sand it carries. Possibly we, also, are destined to be taken out, to become element of anything vaster than ourselves.
But the wave does not rush. It movements at its own speed, never hurried, never uncertain. Even though storms increase and waves crash with the fury of the air, the tide is steady beneath it all. It knows that the turmoil can diminish, that the winds can tire, and it it's still there, holding the world silently from one place to Another.
We handle the sea as though it is split from us, like its increase and drop is anything to fear or control. But the simple truth is that people are destined to it as tightly as it is bound to the moon. Their rounds are our cycles. Their memory is our memory. And when we ignore it, we overlook a part of ourselves.
The wave is increasing larger now. Glaciers burn in to its human anatomy, heating currents enlarge, and shorelines are taken farther inland than we've actually known. Some contact that change a disaster, but the hold does not contact it anything at all. It is just returning what was generally their own. We see disaster; the hold sees just continuity.
There may come per day when the wave can move on the destroys of our cities. It will hold the bones of bridges and the frames of towers just because it cradled coral reefs and shipwrecks before. It will grind glass and steel in to sand, spread our monuments in to parts so little they'll be carried to distant shores, unrecognizable. And Planet from then on, the wave it's still going, still holding the storage of the entire world we built, still folding it deeper to the water with each breath.
The tide does not want us. It generally does not require our approval, our fear, our gratitude. It just techniques as it must. It is avove the age of our language, more than our gods, older compared to the world we all know now. It recalls every world that came before, and it'll remember the sides that can come after.
We shall never know all so it carries. We can just stay at the shore, have the take at our legs, and know that individuals are element of something we will never truly understand.
The tides won't reveal their secrets.
We must understand to be controlled by their silence
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