xigekey
49 posts
Jul 29, 2025
10:51 PM
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The tide always returns, nonetheless it never earnings the same. Twice daily, it movements in and out such as for instance a breath, sweeping across the shore with a beat older than language. It variations the rocks, the mud, the sources of the mangroves, simply to escape and come again. But since it moves, it requires pieces of the planet with it — cereals of mud, bits of shell, fragments of storage — carrying them out to the areas we can't see.
We view the tide rise and fall and imagine that individuals understand it, that it is a simple change between water and shore. But what we see is the surface. Under the water, the hold drags whole worlds with it. It draws at the roots of underwater forests, it sweeps over hidden canyons, it whispers through the crashes of ships and the bones of things that never made it home. It's been going like this since well before we stood at the side of the ocean, and it will carry on long following we're gone.
Every hold is a memory. It bears with it the dust of faded mountains, the ash of historical fires, the pollen of flowers that bloomed a lot of years ago. It remembers the fun of young ones playing at the shoreline, the weight of storms which have drowned cities, the comments of sailors who cried out for help as their boats were drawn under. But it does not tell these stories aloud. It holds them close, folding them greater to the water every time it retreats.
The tides are designed by the moon — that soft wanderer over people that has never touched the planet earth, however regulates the side of each ocean. The moon draws the water toward it since it groups the world, and the water obeys, rising and falling with a patience we can't fathom. It is not really a severe command, but a quiet tether, an indication that also the biggest seas are bound to anything beyond themselves. And because take lies a storage also: the memory of a global without people, some sort of however young and molten, once the tides were even stronger as the moon was closer, yanking harder at the oceans.
We stand at the edge of the sea and think the tide is predictable. We construct harbors and towns and walls, as though their beat is mine to master. But the hold hasn't truly belonged to us. It does not take care of our calendars or our ports. It'll wait so long as it must, because it has recently waited longer than we could comprehend. It'll return to maintain what we build, the same way it said the footprints of those that stood on the shore before us.
Often, once the breeze is low and the water is relaxed, you are able to hear the wave speaking — maybe not in words, but in the hush of foam on sand, in the delicate crackle of salt and stone. Its style is quiet, but not empty. It's a voice that understands a lot to shout. It has seen forests sink beneath their weight and deserts blossom where oceans when lay. It has erased entire coastlines with its slow patience. It has presented strategies in their depths that'll never be unearthed.
And yet, for several their stop, the tide gives. It patterns the planet as much as it requires from it. It gives nutrients to the shores, bottles countless creatures, carves out estuaries and marshlands where new life can thrive. The tide is just a sculptor, removing rock and reshaping shores one air at a time. Without it, the oceans could stagnate, the coasts might wither, and the planet could develop still.
We are attracted to the hold, nevertheless we rarely understand why. Children chase it since it retreats, then flee as it rushes straight back in. People sit at the side of the sea all night, listening, seeing, sensation something stir in them they can not name. There is anything eternal in the tide's flow, a thing that speaks to the part of us that remembers we came from water Planet ago. Perhaps we are not different from the cereals of sand it carries. Possibly we, too, are destined to be swept away, to become section of anything vaster than ourselves.
But the hold does not rush. It movements at its velocity, never hurried, never uncertain. Even if storms rise and waves accident with the fury of the atmosphere, the tide is constant beneath it all. It understands that the disorder can disappear, that the winds will tire, and it it's still there, holding the world quietly from one place to Another.
We address the sea as although it is separate from us, like its rise and drop is anything to fear or control. But the simple truth is that individuals are destined to it as firmly since it is likely to the moon. Their rounds are our cycles. Its memory is our memory. And when we ignore it, we overlook an integral part of ourselves.
The wave is rising larger now. Glaciers dissolve in to its body, warming currents swell, and shorelines are pulled further inland than we've ever known. Some contact this change a disaster, however the hold doesn't call it such a thing at all. It is just returning the thing that was generally their own. We see loss; the tide considers only continuity.
There will come a day when the wave can roll over the destroys of our cities. It'll holder the bones of connections and the frames of towers only as it cradled coral reefs and shipwrecks before. It'll work glass and material into mud, scatter our monuments into pieces so little they'll be carried to remote shores, unrecognizable. And extended next, the tide will still be moving, still holding the memory of the world we built, still flip it deeper to the water with each breath.
The hold does not require us. It generally does not require our agreement, our anxiety, our gratitude. It simply movements because it must. It's older than our language, more than our gods, older compared to the world we all know now. It remembers every world that got before, and it will remember the worlds that can come after.
We will never know all so it carries. We can just stand at the shore, feel the take at our feet, and know that people are part of something we will never really understand.
The tides will not reveal their secrets.
We must learn to be controlled by their silence
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