There is a peculiar tension that arises when someone who has awakened encounters someone who is still asleep.
Not unconscious. Asleep in the way most of the world is asleep: living inside the agreed upon fiction, the collective trance, the story everybody accepted without ever checking whether it was true.
The one who is awake has had the veil lifted. And the first thing the veil reveals is not how clever you are. It is how alone you are.
You cannot shake a sleeper awake. Try it, and they will only dream that someone is shaking them, and fold it into the dream.
The desert taught me this before any person did. You do not begin with plants. You begin with conditions. Water slowed down. Shade as infrastructure. A corridor for the wind to pass through instead of stripping everything bare. Then one morning after a rain, the ground does something you did not command. It wakes up on its own schedule.
People are the same. You build the conditions. You keep the light on. You leave the door open. You tend your own soil so visibly and so well that one day they look over the fence and wonder what you are growing.
That is the gardener's answer to the peculiar tension. Not argument. Not rescue. Cultivation.
The Ark is being built for the awake and the asleep alike. The asleep will need it most, and they will be the last to know it. So we build it now, while they sleep, and we keep the door open.
The garden keeps the books. It always has.