She swelled and she rumbled, she spat magma across her surface. Earth, she seemed emotional about the whole populaces history of sordid affairs. Wracked with guilt, wracked with fear, the people wondered how to heal all that they had done, to return all the goodness they had pulled from her. Yet they found no way to reverse their actions, no way to put all of it right. In their ignorance, they thought it was their fault, they foolishly thought they had a choice. In their arrogance, they thought they were designated caretakers upon that world. Yet from a distance, she whirled blue and green, the same as she had done all the time man resided on her surface. Then the swelling, the cracking and the bursting. In an explosive burst, earth’s egg was launched, out of her incubation pod. The egg perfect, new, on it’s way to distant stars. As the husk ripped open, used up and dead, floats out into the galactic sea.
My spirit animal resides with me, around me, following me, leading me. Yet I don’t really know who he could be. I sometimes think of a bear, I have been told a couple of times, I seem like a bear spirit, my lazy strength, my big hugs and sleepy winters. Yet ego is not so swollen to align myself with such a magnificent soul. Perhaps I am shrew or vole, platypus or duck. I say these things, belittling the magnificence in every creature waddling walking and crawling. Whichever I find with me, whoever chose to be with me, I am honoured with your company.
The rich dictate the value of their wares. Their possessions gain wealth from the wealth residing. While the poor cannot even gain the worth of their possessions. For need slashes at worth viciously. Buyers lap at the blood of the bleeding, then throw their sovereigns at the foot of the golden throne. A perverted world it seems, existence sieving the dirt from the gold, to polish a perfect land for the few. Then a curse to the order, if this cruelty turns to be true.
Generations of swine emerge from the Etonian machine, with not one care to those below, not a clue of what it means to wonder if you might fail, if you might hunger. For they are born into the mechanism, into the machine, from birth they have their place. To mould the land to their liking. Below, the proles scamper on the lower limbs, the bowels, the engine room, to feed the palaces above. One after the other, father to son, each more inbred than the last. Free to ride the world, frivolously scampering through the world’s blood, as boots are cheap as souls for them.
Mapacho is meditating by the holes in the lawn, he contemplates their meaning. For many hours he will sit and watch the holes just be. Sometimes he will wonder why there are small animals in these holes, blocking the holes, so he removes them. Soon he returns to pondering, by the holes in the lawn.
It is not going to be written, if I do not start typing.