The Earth Breathes

The ground is never truly solid. We walk upon a thin skin, forgetting the heat that churns beneath our heels. In the north, we know the earth as something that freezes, something that locks away the secrets of the soil until the thaw. But here, the earth is restless. It exhales. It reminds us that the surface is merely a temporary arrangement of matter, a fragile crust over a furnace that never sleeps. We build our houses and our lives on the assumption of permanence, ignoring the steam that rises from the cracks. There is a primal rhythm to this venting, a slow, heavy pulse that does not care for our schedules or our need for stability. We are guests on a planet that is still forming, still cooling, still deciding what it wants to be. What happens when the ground finally decides to speak?

Preethi Beth has captured this quiet violence in her image titled Hot Furnaces. The steam rises like a ghost of the deep, indifferent to the world above. Does it make you feel small, or simply temporary?