We have covered the earth that gave us birth with asphalt, stifled its breathing beneath the weight of progress, and now we complain of a lack of horizons, of skies too low, of dreams that no longer take root. But how can anyone choose a direction if they deny the source from which they came?
To plunge our hands into the earth is to reconnect with the original language. It is to feel, beneath our fingers, the memory of the world beating, the shiver of roots, the murmur of tiny lives at work. From this earth comes peace. From this matter, meaning.
For it is there, in this raw contact, that wounds are soothed and torments unravel. So what should we do? Continue losing ourselves in the hollow echo of urban monologues, or dare, one day, to immerse ourselves in the earth and rediscover our essence—the part of us that still breathes.
