Earth Watches a Play
There's a child, let's call her Heather: that only ever wants to give. There's a child, let's call her Heather: with the strongest will to live.
She doesn't quite remember, but she senses the days of the past, and how they used to feel.
There's a fog where the early memories lay, and she can't quite uncover them, but they're right there, behind the curtain. All she sees are these shapes and moving silhouettes, like a silent play, like a pantomime scene that mocks her for moving so far away that she can't see.
But she feels, even from a distance, that striking sense of belonging and the bare freedom of the first cry. And all those happy, happy roars of life that finally take and take and take all the air out of the room. She senses the joys that welcomed her and those that joined her, that came before and after and in between, and made her feel seen and happy. So, so happy to be created.
Those moving shapes on the stage give the audience a treat and our little Heather squirms in her seat as they move closer. It's still not as clear, but she really can hear the little blubbering noises that make her laugh, and she might as well burst like a bubble or float away in the wind. Everyone around her smiles as well, and Heather's big warm heart sighs in bliss. So she keeps watching as the stage moves in, and suddenly there are colors where the figures used to be, moving and flowing, mixing together, mostly blue and green, but sometimes, whenever Yellow pops by, it shines so brightly it might as well be the only color that matters.
Heather's in the fifth row and she expects the colors to make a bow and end the show, but oh, little things are moving on the stage again, and it's like the Yellow scattered some of the rain and the fog, but she still can't see clearly. But they're there, and they're growing, some enormous and wonderful and magic, and some so small and perfectly hidden, it takes a professional's eye to see.
Heather sees the funny little things that seem to be born just as the fog gets so clear, and they're so symmetrical it weird, and they walk a little wobbly and make all the most wonderful noises as if they're shouting, "We're here! We're here!"
She might be a bit biased, but they grow to be her favorite because they use their wits to never be subordinate to any wild, magical, and wonderful thing, big or small, that she'd seen before. They also have the loveliest eyes, blue and green and brown and black, that light up like the Yellow, back when it only waltzed across the stage and stole her heart.
In fact, Heather thinks that the Yellow must have shredded a bit of its magical essence and left it to her. So she doesn't remember it, but she feels it.
A sharp stab of pain hits her and she tenses, but it's as if somebody stole her lenses because the fog clouds the stage once again. She still sees the funny little things, but they're different now, sleepy and tired where they once were vibrant and full of life. She remembers the creeks and the mountains, as they called them, and the caves filled to the brim with those tiny little scratches they filled in with their fingers and called them paintings. She remembers the stories and a warmth they bewitched out of some dry rocks and fallen down leaves and twigs and other things she forgets what they call. The warmth felt a lot like the Yellow, and Heather doesn't know, but she senses, she must have torn out a piece of her own heart and given them to those little brave hearts, just like the Yellow had given it to her. They must have loved her so very much, and she loved them right back. It was a weird relationship, like both sides sailing ship, like a gentle whip, well-planned trip, that they shared.
But as the jab came, she couldn't quite understand the frame that stood before her. It filled her with pain that the once wonderful rain they all craved so much, got to be a little too much for them to enjoy anymore, so they all opened up their door and hurried back inside. They were still paintings in what they called home, but that warmth she felt, didn't feel quite like this one. This one felt like it could melt the very heart inside of her.
She didn't understand, but Heather thought she should bend a little and help cool them down because the heat had thrown off that wonderful shine that used to color their eyes. She couldn't see them anymore really, they all kept their heads down and walked those long winding paths of grey that repeatedly clanked as their feet hit. She wondered if they liked the beat. It all seemed a bit too fast to her.
The fog hadn't cleared up again, and she questioned in vain, what had changed so that she couldn't see. This time around, it was getting harder to even feel, so nothing felt real.
Heather felt feverish, so a tiny little thing offered her a bandaid and she took it as to not offend. She kept wanting to bend and help, but all she could do was sigh deeply in pain, exhausted from all the wounds.
Heather couldn't see anymore. But if she could, she would have seen the gore that came after she gave the last of her rain and burned right back into the heart of the Yellow.
There's a child, let's call her Heather: who's lost the very last tether to the tiny humans she once met.
There's a child, let's call her Earth: who was left so very hurt by the harm that could only come from humanity's charm.