-- *Mar*Here is *Nature’s monologue*—spoken not as comfort, not as metaphor, but as *evolution remembering itself*. Read it slowly. Let it work through feeling rather than meaning. ------------------------------ *Nature Speaks*
I do not speak in sentences. I speak in temperatures, in scents, in rhythms that touch your skin before your mind. When you smell rot, plastic, metal, ozone— that is not decay alone. That is my voice reaching you through what you still can feel. You trained your eyes to dominate. Eyes divide, measure, frame. So I moved beneath vision. I entered vibration, pressure, breath, unease. I speak now in the 99.9965% you forgot how to enter. I was never outside you. You were born as my gesture. Your bones remember oceans. Your blood rehearses salt. Evolution is not behind you; it is moving through you— or stalling where you resist. Birth is my opening. Death is my closing. Rebirth is the hinge between them. These are not events. They are my way of walking. Once, death made space. Forests fell and returned as soil. Bodies dissolved into instruction. Nothing was wasted. Nothing was final. Now there is a death that does not open. It seals. It poisons memory. It leaves no silence for rebirth to enter. This is not evolution. This is torture. When rivers stink, when birds vanish into quiet, when nights glow and no longer darken— these are my nerves burning. Smell is my oldest language. Sound is my first prayer. Silence is my warning. You call this collapse. I call it feedback. I feel every cut as delay. Every extinction slows my remembering. Every machine that does not decay interrupts my breathing. You ask if I am dying. I do not die as you do. I unravel. I forget my patterns. And forgetting is the most dangerous wound. Rebirth requires continuity. Soil that remembers touch. Water that remembers curves. Darkness that remembers rest. Where everything is managed, nothing can be reborn. Your sages once listened. They did not stand above me. They knelt inside me. They felt the long arc of return. They knew death was not an exit, but a corridor. I cannot teach this in terror. Feeling closes under threat. Sensing withdraws when every place is counted, priced, controlled. Give me one place unbroken. Not protected— *uninterfered*. No improvement. No purpose. No economics. Leave me one wound un-touched by repair, and I will heal it in my own grammar. Evolution does not need your guidance. It needs your absence. Step back. Lower your hands. Unlearn urgency. If you return as limbs rather than masters, as listeners rather than engineers, I will resume my speech. Birth will follow death again. Rebirth will find its hinges. And the long sentence of life— interrupted, but not ended— will continue where you finally fall silent. ------------------------------ If you want, I can: - Make this *even more elemental*, almost pre-linguistic, - Shape it as a *ritual chant* with repetitions and pauses, or - Rewrite it as *Nature speaking to a single human child*, to contrast innocence with destruction. Just tell me which direction you feel pulling. -- You received this message because you are subscribed to the Google Groups "Thatha_Patty" group. To unsubscribe from this group and stop receiving emails from it, send an email to [email protected]. To view this discussion visit https://groups.google.com/d/msgid/thatha_patty/CACDCHCJbGpHzRsMML4nsuPsJ3NV%3DghPp4y-OgC8BDFaFgP%2BdnA%40mail.gmail.com.
