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Where the Tides Hide Their Memory
Where the Tides Hide Their Memory
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1
xigekey
533 posts
Jul 29, 2025
11:13 PM
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Photograph this.
You're position barefoot at the edge of the ocean. The air is heavy with sodium, the atmosphere decorated in bruised purples and firelight from the dying sun. The waves battle ahead, curling and breaking at your feet, before falling quietly back into the depths.
But this isn't only water pressing you.
Since every tide… carries memory.
The exact same hold that brushes against your ankles tonight when swept over sides you'll never know. It hidden neglected cities, cooled lava as it built from newborn volcanoes, and drowned woods that existed before people actually dreamed of walking upright. It carried the ashes of shoots that burned out a lot of decades ago. It's held the bones of sailors who faded into the night, their comments swallowed by breeze and water.
And now it touches you.
The hold takes pieces of the world with it every time it retreats — grains of sand from hills that fell way back when, covers that when sheltered lives smaller when compared to a fingernail, fragments of rock and glass utilized easy from generations of tumbling. Where do they're going? To the places we can't see. In to trenches greater than Everest is large, into dark canyons wherever mild has never touched, in to currents that circle the planet like arteries.
The hold hides everything it collects, burying the world's memories in a silence also large for us to break.
We tell ourselves we realize it. We information its styles, build surfaces and harbors to struggle it, title the hours when it will rise and fall. However the hold does not care about our measurements. It hasn't belonged to us. It listens only to the moon.
That pale ghost in the air, remote and untouchable, pulls at the oceans every moment of every day. The water stretches toward it, growing to generally meet its hidden hand. And when the moon converts away, the water falls back. This silent tug-of-war has shaped the planet for billions of years. Actually the deepest seas are tethered to anything beyond themselves.
Yet the hold is changing.
It's creeping farther inland now. Glaciers are reduction in to their depths, warming waters are swelling their body, and shorelines are vanishing item by piece. Islands we once thought eternal happen to be removed, reduced to only names on previous maps.
And here's the reality a lot of people do not want to face: the wave won't stop for us.
We call it disaster. The hold calls it nothing at all. It just remains, as it always has, getting and providing, sculpting and erasing. It's deleted entire continents before. It is going to do so again.
Is it possible to imagine the near future?
The ocean moves within the towns we built. Streets disappear underneath the waves, their asphalt broken and broken like old bone. Towers fail into the surf, turning in to reefs wherever fish drift through silent glass halls. Monuments fall, shattered and spread till they are indistinguishable from the rocks of the seabed. Whole civilizations are reduced to fragments, overly enthusiastic by currents so strong we will never swim against them.
And when it happens, the tide won't roar. It won't rage. It will not mourn.
It only will remember.
Because that is what the wave does. It's the planet's memory. Every life, every surprise, every loss is folded in to their depths and moved forward. The tide has observed entire sides rise and fall. It understands points number individual language can actually hold.
But the wave is not only a thief. It is a sculptor.
It produces living to the shore. It carries vitamins to estuaries and marshlands wherever new animals are born. It shapes the edges of our planet, smoothing sharp rocks in to delicate rocks, remaking beaches with every breath. With no hold, the planet's pulse would falter. Oceans would stagnate. Coastlines might wither.
Perhaps this is exactly why we are attracted to it.
We visit the water's side without generally understanding why. Children chase the retreating waves, joking, then shriek when it rushes back toward them. Adults stay at the shoreline all night, hypnotized by the rhythm, making the sound of these lives get away. There is anything eternal in the tide's air — a thing that calls to the part of us that remembers where we came from.
Because we originated from the water once.
The tide carried life onto the land. It cradled the very first sensitive animals that dared to examine from the shallows. And perhaps that's why we experience so small ranking before it today — perhaps not since it will take from us, but because in some strong, unspoken way, we all know it offered us everything first.
Stay there good enough, and you'll start to spot the details. The quiet pull at your ankles because it pulls away. The hiss of bubbles crumbling in the foam. The light, nearly human sigh as it exhales onto the sand.
In the event that you listen tightly, you may hear the hold suggesting a reality:
“Nothing you understand is permanent.
But nothing is actually missing, either.”
One day, the wave will throw around the planet as if we were never here. The names of our cities, the borders we struggled conflicts to Planet, the monuments we built to overcome time — all of it will be swept out, melted, and moved to the deep.
And yet… there is a strange comfort in that.
Since the tide tells people that people are section of something larger than ourselves. Something which doesn't need people, but supports all of us the same. Every thing we do, everything we build, every breath we take becomes section of its memory. The wave keeps it, even when we are gone.
You'll never know all so it carries. Nothing of us will.
But next time you're at the beach, stop. Have the take at your feet. View the waves pull lines in the sand, then eliminate them without hesitation. Remember that the same wave moved lives you'll never meet and can feel lives long after yours.
It does not matter in the event that you forget.
The wave won't.
The tides will never inform us their secrets.
But when you're quiet enough, you could feel them in your bones.
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