A short story about rebirth. Written on the 9th June 2016.
The metamorphosis had begun with the warping of ancient tissues, the mutation of prehistoric genes. The phoenix was tired and longed to emerge from its worn, ashen bed.
The time had come for change. The decision was made by others, when the bombs dropped and the oceans evaporated, when the trees ignited and the mountains imploded. That was the moment of clarity. A return to innocence was in order, long overdue and inevitable in nature. The celestial had said “enough”. And so it began, again.
Rebirth. Expelled from the womb of rapture, protected by the placenta of purity and nursed on the flawless teats of celestial innocence, the second chance commenced and blossomed into an aeon of timeless silence and contemplation.
It was a beautiful age, the timeless one. One without damage or scarring, one without thought. It lasted until its peace was inevitably shattered once more by the advancing tide of humanity which had spawned upon that innocent, soulful thing. A world of change had come once more. As the sand began trickling through the hourglass, the rupturing of that purity began anew. It was slow at first, just as before, and as the tumultuous shores passed through the glass and filled its bottom, there was less and less left to expend.
The bombs would come again, of that there was no doubt. The oceans would vanish. The trees would erupt and the mountains would collapse into nothing. The decision would be made again. As it always will.