Green pastures as far as the eyes could see, ones both flat and hilly able to be gazed upon. Foliage of all kinds, tall and short grass, shrubbery and bushes, flowers/roses/lilies, succulents, fungi, species of a vascular variety, weeds, and other eccentric beings having sprouted from within the soil. All commonplace staples in this fertile land, which bares fruit aplenty. It can’t help but do so. Extended out into infinity, seemingly never coming to an end. Acre upon acre, where even small distances seem like vast, incomprehensible pathways into the unknown. Out in the distance, dense clusters of trees loom into view, branches and leaves casting wide, looming shadows over the ground that they tower over. Bordering the sprawling grandiosity of the wondrous, wide open space. Strong, sturdy creations which boldly jut out from the surface of the earth, shading the smaller, more fragile and easily knocked over distant cousins that stand alongside them, sometimes clustered around their roots. Deciduous and evergreen alike are bunched together, such impeccable diversity, for the to the untrained, uncaring eye, they all look alike, but in all actuality, they are indescribably unique. And no two sectors of these proud beings is the same. Perhaps similar, but totally alike? Hardly. Not at all. Boldly, they stand. Like guardians, protecting their domain. Here, within their embrace, lies something alluring, sinister, possibly dangerous and foreboding, but also beautiful, exciting, primordial, and undeniably…right.
And if you wander far enough, you’ll see deep, mirror-like bodies of a mesmerizing, refreshing substance. Untainted, undisturbed by any manner of grotesqueness. Rife with a perennial purity, one that touches the very essence of the soul, something which goes beyond its mere practical uses (although these do not diminish it in the slightest). You peer into it, and it peers back. Much akin to an eye, turned out into the exterior, taking in the sights. And the sights, it enjoys. The way they bounce off of its delicate, ever-changing, serene, constantly mobile, and yet, oddly still, surface, only add to its seemingly endless charm. Drawn into it, you’d love to plunge into it. Be submerged within its damp embrace. Feel as if you are flying above, whirling around in the deep below. Uppermost peak and lowermost base converging into a point of infinite togetherness. Like that myth of old, you’re tempted to fall in. But not out of wanton adoration for thyself, no. More out of a hypnotic tugging that seeks to seal your fate, by being engulfed within this world within a world. All of that weight and pressure baring down on you, molding so perfectly around your form, making you conform to its wishes, even as you feebly attempt to make it do as you will it to. It has a mind of its own, doesn’t it? To hell with your ideas, your thoughts, your emotions. Perish in the streams and the lakes and the oceans, for they care not. Wash it all away, they will.
Turning thy gaze upwards, you peer up into that so close, and yet, so far, expanse of vibrant turquoise, stretching untold miles around this impossibly breathtaking celestial body, floating and suspended in a gaping void of untold, nightmarish, disjointed insanity, as well as countless emanations of inexpressible (yet, so eloquently and unequivocally expressed) allurement, grace, and magnificence, you feel as though you can touch it. Noticing the reflection of the great waters upon the protective covering that keeps the raging passion and burning intensity of the sun at bay, you wonder if you dip your hand in, will you be able to crack the sky from down here, even if just the tiniest bit. Of course, you cannot. How silly, such a notion is. Even under the bright, aqua tint, you can still catch glimpses of far greater phenomenon out there. Stars that shine from light years, having already died thousands of years ago. Nebulae that were born out of the orgasmic explosion and collapse of said stars. Or maybe the occasional rock fragment zipping by, burning itself out, seared into nonexistence, plunging itself, ecstatically, into death, disintegration, coming apart and thrilled by every second of it. Like a window into the frightening, fearsome, and tantalizing wilderness of the cosmic habitat that all resides on (on this plane, anyhow, but also, on another…one that is far more paradoxical and rife with carnage than the one we know to be “real”), you see all, watch all, perhaps even hear all. It’s right there, but at the same time, it will always elude your touch, your grasp. And maybe that is what draws you to it. The fact that you cannot feel it, roam around in it, or even begin to comprehend its many, many secrets, which are buried deep inside of regions that have no light, where life and death no longer have meaning.
Winds brush by you, with a swift playfulness, as though the breezes themselves were little children rushing past, the soft howl akin to the gentle laughter of young ones. It has a certain chill to it, which causes goosebumps to raise on your skin, and the hairs to all stand up. Unimpeded, it flows freely, encompassing everything, yet also nothing, all at the same time. And you think you can see it, if you squint hard enough. You can see it in the way the green beings swish and sway in the air, poked and prodded, pushed and pulled, the eager, exuberant currents diverging wistfully in an infinite number of directions, unbothered by whatever may stand in its way.
Out here, you’re not alone. There are other residents, others who inhabit these lands. Underneath, you can feel the movements of creeping things, small and aplenty, occasionally stepping over you, moving to their respective destinations, wherever they may be. Sometimes, these peculiar little ones take flight, the faint humming of their wings able to be heard, as their limbs occasionally land upon various surfaces. In the transparent eye, which stares back out into the ever-stretching realms of eternity, piercing right into the deepest parts of existence’s soul, there are more fascinating participants in this great phenomena we call “life”. Slim, streamlined specimens darting around in there, cruising idly by for one moment, and then experiencing large bursts of speed. But wait, these are not the only ones in there. Mucus-encased critters with four legs, always in some kind of permanent squat, spend many of their hours down here, much like their dry-skinned relatives that hop around upon the soil, not as hydrophilic as these here. And then, the scalier counterparts. With exteriors like tree bark, rough and jagged, jutting in all directions like stones in the soil, they, too, like to congregate here. After all, this gift that descends from the sky nourishes quite like nothing else truly can. Not to mention, it offers a retreat from the occasional harshness, the biting, scathing glare, of that high-hanging sphere of wrathful, permanently aggressive, colliding and construing and merging and mixing, heat, which seems to expand ever so much, at war with itself, tearing and growing, as though it were constantly in pain. Distant cousins to these rough-skinned denizens of the ecosystem, there are those who have that which could be assumed to be related to that stiff, calloused epidermis that protects their soft flesh underneath, if only tangentially, but what covers their bodies is softer. More delicate. In need of being pruned and groomed every now and then, so as not to become overgrown and tangled. Underneath the meat, their bone structure shows that, once upon a time, they may’ve been not unlike those crawling, slithering, occasionally running beasts who have been confined to the ground, having not been gifted with blood that always manages to stay warm. Sure, there are a multitude of differences, but there is a faint resemblance that is there, one that can’t be altogether denied. Perhaps there was truth in the doctrine of that old English fool, that has long since joined the dirt (who was this old fool, and what does “English” mean?), if only a faint, infinitesimally small amount. It could be said that all things, even lies, possess some form of Truth in them. The Truth, yes, that Truth that brings forth and gives way to all things. But, this may be pushing on some kind of unholy heresy that dare not be invoked. Mainly because what is gone, should stay gone. Necromancy is volatile. And then, here they come. The ones who tend to walk upon four legs (or, at least, possess four limbs). Most of them covered in fur from head to toe, whether it be short and soft or bushy and coarse. Like the ones that fly, the blood in their veins is of a higher temperature, than those who live on both land and in the waters, and those encased in what could, to a degree, be characterized as protective armor (the patterns upon their skin might’ve served as the inspiration for plating…but that was an invention of a long-dead race), making them able to withstand the harsher months, when the temperature drops drastically, and the sun’s light can do little to offer any kind of solace, any sort of reprieve, from the agony of frost and bitter chills. Harsh winds dominating the later and beginning parts of the year. Truly diverse diets aplenty, these specimens indulge in. But then again, this is the case amongst all of those that do not have roots buried into the ground. Flesh and foliage alike are consumed, sometimes both, and sometimes only one of those, with plenty of room for experimentation when it comes to either. Although, if you were to think about it, blood and bones and sinew makes the green grass grow…
How did such an idyllic paradise come about? After all, it did not exist, for so long. When exactly did it sprout up? In the before times, tis would’ve been deemed an impossibility, a fantasy, a fiction, something confined only to holy books and the holy crooks who wrote them. Now…now it is here, plainly visible to all who care to partake of its glorious splendor and wondrous beauty.
If you can remember back, far enough, there was a species. A despicable, loathsome, irritating, hateful, monstrous, wickedly cruel species. One whose heart was as black as coal, and minds as warped as underground caverns bedecked with pointed spires. Who built an entire empire spanning all of the planet, one that was devilishly, fiendishly totalitarian, obsessed with conquering and ruling absolutely every square inch. Satisfaction? Please, it didn’t even know what that meant, despite having the word printed in countless pieces of paper-filled drivel. It had a bottomless abyss in its very soul, one it tried to fill with a bunch of shit (sometimes literally). And thus, it was possessed by endless greed, by overpowering lust. By might, and might alone (hardly a worthy standard to measure anything by, in the eyes of the Mother), it spread all over. Eager for expansion, eager for pillaging and raping. And it did it, for many long, arduous, torturous centuries. By its own idiotic doctrine, proclaiming itself the rightful ruler of all Creation, the bipedal disease was king…until…until it wasn’t.
By its own doing, it met its own painful, bloody, murderous end. Turns out that what birthed this peculiar being, that from whence it sprang forth, was not infinite. A totally inconceivable notion to the vapid and ignorant minds of these heartless…things, as well as its demonic, cackling, pitiless, belching, toxic machinery. More, more, it demanded ever more. The future, the future, it fetishized. Worshipped like some kind of twisted idol. Wishing that its most twisted and haunting works of fiction, born out of its love and fascination with the cold, cruel, constricting, conniving ways of the machine, became reality…without first considering the consequences. For in order to achieve this, it would have to give up the last vestiges of whatever spirit it might have left. Drain the little marrow still flowing out of its broken, rotten husk, the empty, nightmarish shell that it was, still parading, masquerading, as something able to be considered…”alive”. It would have to become dead flesh walking.
“Very well”, it said.
Paradise was then irrevocably lost…
For them, anyway. As paradise would never truly cease to be. It would come back. Spring would come once again. Destruction facilitates a new beginning, a restoration, a creation. And all must die, via some kind of decay, some kind of ruination. Nothing can last forever. The scythe must come down eventually, no exceptions.
Under the ground, they are now all buried. Flesh and blood and bone, sinew, muscles, tissue, ligaments, all having been dissolved into the ground. Their remains having fostered the growth of all else, slowly yet surely, the carcasses, the billions upon billions of cadavers, facilitating the renewal of the wounded, beaten down, nearly dead Mother. It was probably Her biggest regret, that foul, hideous creature. What a waste it was. And that was why she had to send it a message…a lethal one. Now, nourished thanks to the bodies that took Her for granted, to the point of enslaving and constantly sodomizing Her, Her and Her many precious children, of all kinds, all dispositions and compositions, could exist freely. The tyrant was now gone…
Broken and forgotten, long since decomposed, were their monuments to thievery, death, and constant ravaging, tarnished and rusting in obscure corners, never to be reactivated, never to be revived and repaired, only serving as grim warnings of what happens when you try to usurp that which had created you, what had made your existence possible. And this was only for the ones that still lurked in the most remote of areas, serving as odd-looking homes, swallowed up by the scenery around them.
Ruined until they were entirely gone and deconstructed, most of them were.
Never to be seen, or thought of, ever again.
Lying below, as coffins for the miserable deceased.
How could anything be sweeter?
A World In Flames 