How We Got Here
We are a garden. Our collective souls, tangled up, in a bouquet of thorns and jagged brambles. I cut my legs on sharp grass, and feel the thorns dragging across my ankles, and alas, I continue forwards.
We are the aurora borealis, blazing and terrifying and celestial. Our collective stories, our lives, more broken than the jagged light that flies across the sky, like our bruises. We could set the world ablaze, we could write our memoirs in the stars and glistening hues that leak out of the sky, like ichor and a million years of tales worth telling.
We are a desert. There is miles and miles, and everywhere you turn, it is the same, all so similar. The same playing field, the same vague appearance, but every inch, every one of us, holds new terrors, and a new destiny.
We are mountains. We have come from explosions and tower above. We graze the sky, because we are larger than life, and why should we bind ourselves to the ground, when it is so obvious that we were meant to touch the stars? To graze the moon. To split open the clouds with snowy mountain tops and jagged fingernails.
We are the galaxy. Bigger than anything you have ever seen, and spelling out legends within our light. Our veins map out constellations, and we set the world on fire and will leave you breathless with our power.
We are the world.