Knowing trees, I understand the meaning of patience. Knowing grass, I can appreciate persistence.
- Hal Borland
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God made green plants on the third day. Landscapes were washed in colourful hues. Flowers grew in orderly, almost surreal rows. There was a time when we sought Pattern in Nature. Nature made us fly like a butterfly, but we stung back like a mantis. Why wasn’t corn and wheat enough? In an attempt to reach the milky way, we lost hold of the pavement. We wanted to feed on metals and stiff ceramics. We now play creator, conquering and manipulating nature in unnatural ways. We are recording unbelievable temperature extremes. We are growing on the sci-fi edge, triggering dramatic transformations, but shrinking dramatically in morals. We are stretching our orbits but forgetting to remain grounded. We drink fermented tea and excavate earth to fuel plastic. We are just inanimate statues, layering ourselves with infinite greed. We rose with a scorching heat decades ago and withered the planet. It faded in the midst of its pursuits. But eventually, all shall perish. Vistas will be set to the sloshes of the giants. A crock of flame peeled out of this blazing fire. We will not take even a quarter mile ahead. We will be gulped by the tides of war.
Those water droplets were like hours in my life. The mansions crumbled the night I moved in. I had seen the plants that grew in response to attacks. It was a Victorian era illusion. The house on the rock had sprung from one man’s obsession. Remote chain of islands teemed with sunken treasure. Lungs filled with petrichor, old desert lines drawn from the sky, thousands of glass orbs hidden on the beach, blue ghost fireflies emitting a blue-white light. I had mentally calculated weekdays. My body’s electromagnetic field had never let me touch anything. I felt blind a thousand times due to the saccadic masking. I was binge watching stars, tasting poisoned wine, feeding myself on the sap of the giant hogweed and collecting fossils for her. I will fill our house with soup cans. Missing socks will not give us bruises. I will break the triangle of sorrow. Our livers will not grow and shrink dramatically from seizures every time we lied. No long will meaningless rituals be performed. Forever will this be remembered. How a strontium atom killed without ever exploding. Unofficial protocols will not drip on us with every bit of food. I have come to flip the cards. We will draw a garden in out memory place. We will now make our book towns, we will dig the long lost memories in Atlanta, we will drink cosmic latte, we will bathe in bubblegum-pink lakes, we will study doodles of Leonardo da Vinci, we will purchase crusty breads in paper bags, we will eat entire apples with cores, we will turn Cinderella into wooden giants, we will break through the computer simulation, silence our mind-quakes and escape the land of the colorblind. A fake world. Where burnt ends become a city staple, where Cinderella candles repel the prince, where tomato sauce is made of mushrooms or anchovies or walnuts, where age is manipulated by neural networks, where distant skies glitter with diamond dust, where batteries last more than living souls, where fireworks are scarier than gunshots, and where wounds glow from radiations. It will be an era-defining escapade.
We were hunt down like civil soldiers in strange parks. They had word puzzles to recruit young spies. It was an unsolvable dilemma, under cloned apple trees. They carried us into the deadly abyss shaped like a toy car. Road signs turned into colourful mosaics. We walked through chilli pepper gardens. Organs played like musical instruments by the sea. I felt an intense disgust from the cluster of holes and a weathering in my joints. All the water pooled up at the centre of my body as if the Earth was flat. My body turned red like the juice in my steak. It was the suicide tree. I measured the entire universe on a logarithmic scale. “Failed!”, it said. But the Northern lights illuminated desolate islands. It gave us precious escape time from woolly mammoths. I traced the footprints of ancient forts and temples. For I shall survive till the sun dies. Like a single strontium atom, modifying gravity and defying gravity.
There was no escape from the iron gates for days. If we would have tried, a single bullet would have reached us, ignited us, burst us into flames. Then our only purpose would have been to forever rot in that hotel and become worm nourishment. We remembered the anguish, the guilt and the games. I didn’t want any of us to die. I looked around and tried to find someone willing to die instead of watching everyone cry in that stale humid place. Blood got hotter, bodies got colder. I knew that blood would be spilled. Some graves would never be filled. It will either be kill or get killed. But no one was willing to die. We lived like sewer rats.
The small metal ships were launched. I killed a couple once. Wrapped them in white satin and carried the weight to the fabled isles. I consumed the carcasses of those creatures. The stains burned in the dusty remains of the burnt skeletal coverings. I spent weeks to not let their spirits rise from the graves. But today I am building a boat from the wood caskets. The slaughterhouses will no longer echo with screams of pain and fear. Because I am going home.
Has the sun lost its memory? Why is it not raising me up? The opera in my mind is making me moan. Is there someone who has seen the light? I heard the mutter, the fireflies fluttered, and I lost it all. Where is the stale cold smell of the morning? The burnt smoky ends of the days are healed now. Take us to the house of memories. Take us home. I fill my cup with the wine of memories. Its a long swim, no surrender. I can’t fade in the middle of a memory. Because even if dead, they are sweeter than the taste of a cherry so sweet. But now I come home and it’s not the same. It’s just a hollow cove. As I unloaded my first baggage from the tram, and headed back home of which remained only the land with lifeless traces, going down a memory lane was the only obvious thing left.
If only they could see the beast they had made of me, I held it in but now it seems it was set running free. Screaming in the dark, I howl when we are apart. I wanted to drag my teeth across their chests and taste their beating hearts. My fingers would have clawed their skin in an attempt to tear my way in. Where was the moon that used to break the night for me to howl. Now there's no holding back. My blood is singing with their voices, I want to pour it out. The saints can't help me now, the ropes have been unbound. I will hunt for them with bloody feet across the hallow'd ground.
A story from within creeps into my skin. A lone soul is not who I seek to be. A silent soul is not me. I have been fooled by my own claws. So once again I'll howl to the moon to save me and my claws. All alone in these lands, footprints will be heard, hot breaths will be exhaled. Scars of honor and pride in my own land. Eyes fierce and filled with the will to strive. I howl to the moon. Why art thou not answering? I think I will forever long for an answer from the mighty moon.
We have tipped our planet to another state. Buildings once bedecked in bright hues are a gray, crumbling dystopia of decaying concrete. The ones who left are in a tiny detached blob now. It's a monochrome planet. Colors get produced in factories. Draped in idyllic visions of efficiency. The obvious visceral sensations - the noise, the rumbling, the heat, the particles from the products floating in the air - is the awareness that something is being created, something of real value. People have made this their unlikely home. A line of weed hanging in a seemingly isolated place. These are the only signs of life we get. Their sky shimmers with diamond dust. The only snow they have is super-adsorbent polymers. That is probably a better place to be than the isolated corners of the city. But this haven has glitches. They exhale the elements of dozens of individual clouds. They try to capture a full arc of our life cycle. They were more interested in documenting our presence than contemplating the jaw dropping vistas. Someday this may be deciphered like symbols on ancient caves.
But the wait is over. The truth is we are being burned down like wildfire. A more deserving species shall rule. Thanks to the old-fashioned human carelessness. Earth will record various stages of recovery. Nature will stand it’s ground, fight back and survive. From sweeping scenes of the advanced civilization we take pride in to shots of flowers popping through the soil.
We are the ones, the ones you left behind. Don’t tell us now, don’t tell us how to live our lives. Thank you for nothing, because there is nothing left to lose. Thank you for feeding us years of lies. Thank you for the worlds you ruined overnight. If I could write poems to carve again those paths, I would already have crossed the maze. We got designer tattoos and we wore them around like a stain of color on our colorless selves.
But the truth fell on us like the hand of Christ. Our DNAs were not fooled. We grew mini brains in the lab. We dropped neutron stars into vacuum. We erased the illusions from bodies with baking soda. The giant sinkholes echoed with blood. We brought firewood from submerged forests. We watched photons with naked eyes. Altered their state of consciousness and freed them from the dark web. Most of our bodies are parts left from evolution. And we hid the secrets in a massive tower in the Pacific.
We laid on thorns but we thrived. We crawled with the bruises because we knew it was not the end. We felt stabbed with loneliness. All the red roses had left and we were the black roses from the once red rose garden. Content was not the feeling we evoked till we adorned nature with everything natural. Our minds were clouded with guilt for decades. But one day we will finally completed our voyage to reach the place where we truly belong. We will lie here stagnant, bearing the harsh, cold winds waiting but we will endure till the end. I had watched kids build sandcastles while I crawled into the lanes. But now when I am that old, I have buried my dreams. Because, dreams come with a price tag. I ached at places I couldn't recognize. I tried to steal sunsets, not knowing when I would never again see my reflection. I filled my womb with an ocean.
Throbbing with extraordinary shades of rust, lemon yellow, pink, lavender and bright green, It looked like an elegant piece of abstract art. These lakes, these lands, predated human settlement. As they tried to enter gravity again, they got shredded and drained into the dustbin they had once thought earth was. Their ambitions sucked them in.
I stood still, alone in the dark hours of the silvery midnight, holding myself with resolve but not pride. My amber eyes glowed in candescent shadow; they held what no other being had before : wisdom of the ages, a sense of the ancients. I look over the Alps, scattered luminiscent flowers on pine trees, strong as the wind of the north. The white sparks dance across me as the grey clouds shift above my form, howling wreaths of irridescent silver blowing over the valley, painting it into wilderness that would not appeal to the normal eyes. To me it was beauty that had never failed to shed light on my old, pained heart. As I raised my head, a single scar across my eyes glinted; it was a beautiful scar, azure against twilight, but a mark that would never fade. The sound however that emitted, was not of suffering, now of sorrow, for as I called, it was the sound of longing, a sound of welcoming. The radiant orb shone through the dark mist, as if in a child's dream. It shone onto me, a silver hand that came to touch my soul, fill it with joy as I had felt many years ago. As my melody came to a mesmeric end, my mother withdrew, once more to be covered by the storm. I had never been alone and woulld never be, for as I slept on the hill, blanketed in snow, I was at peace. At peace as my soul drifted above to join my mother , within the diminishing sky. Mother Nature had finally acknowledged me and accepted me as her own.