What part of the mother are we, really? What does she make of us?
She's dying of a cancer, has been for many thousands of years. But it takes a long time to kill a spirit this ancient.
And we congratulate ourselves and our connection to the divine. Sooth the racing hearts with internal whispers of "there's a guide, you are light, let it shine, co-creator, child of the universe, ask and ye shall receive..."
And why not? How else could art have risen without us, when else would music have lifted to the skies, how else would this beauty have come about, what other limb of the world can choose nonviolence, has even the option to question death, attempts at all to mend the pain?
We, the cancer, the single deadliest organism ever to move upon earth's surface, we claim co-creator with her. And like acid wherever we touched, we brought death, elimination of unique patterns that brewed and bloomed for millions of years, and our presence was doom to half of what we touched, half of creatures could not withstand the "light." We could not leave any looming larger than us, and eliminated the giants, the magnificent, the powerful, we lopped off the top of mother's makings so we could stand tallest. They didn't even try to run from such thin and feeble clawless, toothless beasts. They were gone before they learned to run.
The crime is too great. The sin too large to be forgiven, how could I even ask her for it?
I bury myself in the ash. And I hope she likes music.
