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Where the Tides Hide Their Memory
Where the Tides Hide Their Memory
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1
xigekey
532 posts
Jul 29, 2025
10:54 PM
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The wave always earnings, nonetheless it never results the same. Twice every day, it moves in and out just like a Air, sweeping throughout the shore with a beat more than language. It details the rocks, the sand, the roots of the mangroves, simply to escape and come again. But because it moves, it requires bits of the planet with it — grains of mud, bits of cover, fragments of memory — carrying them out to the places we can't see.
We view the wave rise and drop and envision that we understand it, that it is a straightforward exchange between sea and shore. But what we see is the surface. Under the water, the hold drags whole worlds with it. It draws at the sources of underwater woods, it sweeps over concealed canyons, it whispers through the crashes of vessels and the bones of issues that never caused it to be home. It's been moving like this because well before we stood at the edge of the ocean, and it will continue Planet after we are gone.
Every wave is just a memory. It provides with it the dust of faded mountains, the ash of historical shoots, the pollen of plants that bloomed a lot of decades ago. It remembers the laughter of children playing at the shoreline, the weight of storms which have drowned cities, the voices of sailors who cried out for help as their vessels were taken under. But it does not inform these reports aloud. It keeps them close, folding them deeper in to the water each time it retreats.
The tides are designed by the moon — that light wanderer above us that has never handled the planet earth, however controls the edge of each and every ocean. The moon pulls the water toward it as it groups the planet, and the water obeys, climbing and slipping with a patience we can't fathom. It's not a severe order, but a peaceful tether, an indication that actually the biggest seas are destined to anything beyond themselves. And because move lies a memory also: the memory of a global without us, some sort of however small and molten, once the tides were actually stronger as the moon was closer, pulling harder at the oceans.
We stand at the edge of the sea and believe the tide is predictable. We build harbors and cities and walls, as though their flow is mine to master. But the wave hasn't really belonged to us. It doesn't care for our calendars or our ports. It will delay provided that it should, since it has waited longer than we could comprehend. It'll come back to declare what we build, exactly the same way it stated the footprints of those that stood on the shore before us.
Sometimes, once the wind is reduced and the water is calm, you can hear the tide talking — perhaps not in words, however in the hush of foam on sand, in the delicate crackle of sodium and stone. Its style is calm, however not empty. It's a speech that knows a great deal to shout. It's seen forests sink beneath its fat and deserts bloom where oceans once lay. It's cleared entire coastlines using its slow patience. It has used secrets in its depths that may never be unearthed.
And yet, for all its silence, the tide gives. It forms the planet around it will take from it. It gives nutritional elements to the shores, feeds countless creatures, carves out estuaries and marshlands where new life can thrive. The tide is just a sculptor, smoothing stone and reshaping beaches one air at a time. Without it, the oceans would stagnate, the coasts might wither, and the planet might develop still.
We are drawn to the wave, nevertheless we seldom realize why. Children chase it since it retreats, then flee as it rushes right back in. Adults stay at the edge of the ocean all night, listening, seeing, emotion something wake inside them they can't name. There's something endless in the tide's flow, something that talks to the portion folks that remembers we came from water extended ago. Probably we're not too different from the cereals of mud it carries. Perhaps we, too, are destined to be swept away, to become element of something vaster than ourselves.
Nevertheless the tide does not rush. It movements at a Unique speed, never hurried, never uncertain. Even if storms increase and dunes accident with the fury of the atmosphere, the wave is continuous beneath it all. It understands that the disorder will diminish, that the winds may tire, and it it's still there, carrying the entire world gently from destination for a Another.
We treat the sea as although it is split up from people, like its increase and drop is anything to fear or control. But the reality is that we are bound to it as tightly as it is likely to the moon. Its cycles are our cycles. Their memory is our memory. And whenever we ignore it, we forget part of ourselves.
The tide is rising larger now. Glaciers burn into their body, heating currents swell, and shorelines are taken further inland than we've actually known. Some contact this change a tragedy, nevertheless the hold doesn't call it anything at all. It is only returning what was always its own. We see disaster; the hold sees only continuity.
There will come per day when the hold will roll over the destroys of our cities. It'll support the bones of connections and the structures of systems only as it cradled barrier reefs and shipwrecks before. It'll grind glass and metal into sand, spread our monuments into parts so little they will be moved to distant shores, unrecognizable. And extended after that, the hold it's still going, still carrying the storage of the entire world we built, however folding it deeper in to the water with each breath.
The hold does not need us. It generally does not need our approval, our fear, our gratitude. It really techniques as it must. It is older than our language, avove the age of our gods, older than the earth we realize now. It remembers every world that got before, and it'll remember the sides that can come after.
We shall never know all that it carries. We can just stay at the shore, have the pull at our legs, and know that people are element of anything we shall never truly understand.
The tides won't inform us their secrets.
We ought to learn to listen to their silence
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