9. You stand alone, now. Build your cities. Strut, pose, burn. You are reflections of the chaotic universe you inhabit. You create little universes of your own, outside of the ones knocking around in your little “mechanic” heads. You are not a machine, child. You are flesh and blood. You are blue and swollen pink, black and white. Don’t the fiery universes bursting and burning in your little heads prove that, in and of itself?
8. …But look a little closer. Look at you. A scientific wonder to touch instead of a force of destruction that will burn you if you touch it – that’s not the Sun anymore. You shine brighter, in your cities so brimming with chaos. Is that so bad? Once upon a time, I was a child of chaos as well. The messy cosmos created me from nothing, and I have done the same. I made you out of clay and passed that chaos on to you. Is that so bad?
7. You are wide-eyed lions, hearts still young, fur not yet grown out of its fuzz. Trees slowly collapse and the Sun is blocked out by clouds of smoke. The kitties slowly morph their bodies into something two-legged, walking – strutting! – with expressions of hard determination. My once leafy skin itches and erupts with veins of cement and concrete, and you continue to strut upwards. Claiming a one-way path, you live as passionately as that old fire you created…
6. - Ever stop at anything. Nothing stops. Around every corner is a new mess, a new crowd, a new fire waiting to be quenched by your blood, your sweat, your tears. With kitty heels snapping on the pavement, you dream of becoming lions one day. Strut in a straight line and around that corner, dream of being at the top. You’ve done it all your lives, even at the bottom of the chain when I cradled you in my leafy arms. Never stop dreaming, kitty.
5. Look at me. Why? Because you insist on straight lines, north and souths, lefts and rights - directions always become a mess! Look at me. Stop strutting and stand in the middle of a straight line. Dare to make it go off course. It won’t, you see? Its direction is embedded into my skin now. It cannot go off course. You did this to yourselves, you’ve denied yourselves. This is it. It’s coming closer. It’s coming closer now. It’s going to hit you. Don’t move. Don't move. Don't -
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3. At this point, I could call myself pretty domesticated. The swirling clouds above are a poor reflection of the chaos that dances in the cavities of your fleshy bodies. And yet, because you zoom about on wheels through thick matted crowds, you think yourselves machines. With your golden footprints visible all the way from the blue troposphere, with skyscrapers ripping through the sky and marking your locations, you call yourselves lost. How does that make sense?
2. Don't act so tired. When I first cradled you in my leafy arms, you peeled the skin off my complexion and burnt it until you had fire. You breathed in the fumes, called yourselves old, then buried yourself in the folds of my stomach when you were blown out. I barely had to blink before you had covered my leafy arms in cobblestone and cement, forcing me to breathe it all in too. You triumphed over me before the hair on your little heads could even turn a smoky gray. That’s impressive…
1.“Evolution has made us into machines,” you say. “We dare to stare boldfaced at the Sun and see a scientific wonder we want to touch instead of a force of destruction that will burn us if we do. We hear sirens and crane our necks, in the hope of glimpsing a gasping, bloody victim. Are other little heads as mechanic as our own...?” Hush! You are flesh and blood, child! You are breakable, sometimes irreparable. Doesn’t the melody of those sirens prove that, in and of itself?