Guest
Guest
Jul 30, 2025
6:15 AM
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Picture this.
You're position barefoot at the side of the ocean. The air is heavy with sodium, the sky decorated in bruised purples and firelight from the desperate sun. The waves race forward, curling and breaking at your feet, before dropping quietly back into the depths.
But this isn't only water pressing you.
Since every tide… bears memory.
The exact same wave that brushes against your legs tonight when taken around sides you might never know. It buried forgotten towns, cooled lava because it built from newborn volcanoes, and drowned forests that endured before people actually imagined strolling upright. It carried the ashes of fires that burnt out a lot of decades ago. It has held the bones of sailors who faded in to the night time, their sounds swallowed by wind and water.
And today it variations you.
The wave takes pieces of the world with it everytime it retreats — cereals of mud from mountains that fell long ago, covers that once sheltered lives smaller than a fingernail, fragments of stone and glass used easy from ages of tumbling. Where do they go? To the areas we can't see. Into trenches greater than Everest is large, into black canyons wherever light hasn't handled, into currents that circle the globe like arteries.
The hold covers everything it collects, burying the world's memories in a silence too vast for us to break.
We tell ourselves we realize it. We information its styles, construct walls and harbors to struggle it, title the hours when it will increase and fall. However the wave does not worry about our measurements. It never belonged to us. It concentrates and then the moon.
That light cat in the sky, remote and untouchable, brings at the oceans every time of every day. The water extends toward it, increasing to meet its invisible hand. And when the moon converts away, the water comes back. That quiet tug-of-war has shaped the world for billions of years. Actually the deepest seas are connected to anything beyond themselves.
Yet the tide is changing.
It is creeping farther inland now. Glaciers are melting into their depths, warming seas are swelling its body, and shorelines are vanishing item by piece. Islands we when believed endless already are removed, paid down to nothing but titles on previous maps.
And listed here is the reality many people do not want to face: the tide will not stop for us.
We call it disaster. The hold calls it nothing at all. It simply remains, since it generally has, taking and providing, sculpting and erasing. It's removed entire continents before. It will do therefore again.
Can you envision the long run?
The sea moves within the towns we built. Highways vanish beneath the waves, their asphalt cracked and broken like old bone. Towers fall in to the surf, turning into reefs where fish move through quiet glass halls. Monuments crumble, shattered and spread till they are indistinguishable from the rocks of the seabed. Whole civilizations are decreased to pieces, carried away by currents so solid we're able to never move against them.
And when it happens, the hold won't roar. It won't rage. It won't mourn.
It only will remember.
Since that is what the wave does. It's the planet's memory. Every living, every storm, every reduction is flattened in to its depths and moved forward. The tide has seen entire worlds rise and fall. It knows things no human language could ever hold.
But the hold is not really a thief. It is just a sculptor.
It offers life to the shore. It holds vitamins to estuaries and marshlands wherever new animals are born. It patterns the edges of the earth, smoothing sharp stones in to delicate stones, remaking shores with every breath. Minus the hold, the planet's pulse could falter. Oceans would stagnate. Coastlines might wither.
Probably that's why we are attracted to it.
We head to the water's edge without generally knowing why. Kiddies chase the retreating dunes, laughing, then shriek when it rushes back toward them. People stay at the shoreline all night, hypnotized by the rhythm, letting the noise of these lives slip away. There's anything endless in the tide's air — something that calls to the portion people that remembers wherever we came from.
Since we came from the water once.
The hold carried living onto the land. It cradled the first fragile creatures that dared to crawl from the shallows. And perhaps this is exactly why we experience so small ranking before it now — maybe not because it will take sets from us, but since in certain heavy, unspoken way, we all know it gave us every thing first.
Stand there good enough, and you'll start to spot the details. The quiet pull at your ankles because it pulls away. The hiss of pockets collapsing in the foam. The light, almost human sigh since it exhales onto the sand.
If you hear directly, you might hear the hold telling you a reality:
“Nothing you know is permanent.
But nothing is really lost, either.”
One day, the wave will move over the planet as if we were never here. The names of our cities, the boundaries we fought wars to safeguard, the monuments we built to outlast time — all of it is likely to be swept away, softened, and moved in to the deep.
And yet… there's an odd ease in that.
Because the hold tells us that individuals are section of anything larger than ourselves. Something that doesn't need people, but keeps people the same. Everything we do, everything we build, every air we take becomes section of their memory. The wave keeps it, even whenever we are gone.
You will never know all that it carries. Nothing of us will.
But the next time you are at the beach, stop. Feel the move at your feet. Watch the waves draw lines in the sand, then remove them without hesitation. Understand that the exact same wave touched lives you'll never match and may touch lives Planet after yours.
It doesn't matter if you forget.
The wave won't.
The tides won't tell us their secrets.
But when you're calm enough, you might feel them in your bones.
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