If the Earth could speak for a moment


I can barely recall what it feels like to be alive.

Although my memories hang delicately on a languished thread, some still remain, reminding me of the serenity that once profused beneath my feet.

The fields of grass—ones that were lush with bushels of plants and lively trees—once appeared almost as if they were eternal because of the way they disappeared into the horizon. The land was untouched. Its appearance was utterly whole, like everything belonged.

The soothing, yet destructive, waves easily come to mind, as well. The ocean’s ambiguous character leaves a hint of lingering enchantment attached to my memory of the once-untainted water. With the pristine air roaming above it, the atmosphere’s presence remained similarly complete.

I yearn for the days where I felt a genuine purity. Now, I face thieves who steal my eternity and leave their sullied footprints in the process.

I no longer know the feeling of completeness my thoughts exhibit, despite my blissful memories.

Other than the evoking emerald fields, the recollection that I have of the abundance of unscathed green and blue sits in my mind almost like an aftertaste—its diluted ambiance barely felt and slowly dissipating.

Distinctively present, however, is the feeling that I am dying.

My memory of the lush fields is constantly overshadowed by the lifeless aluminum and brick buildings that have taken the place of the spirited trees over time. With each building built, a piece of me is torn off, leaving me progressively incomplete as the days roll on.

I cannot even cleanse my gashed wounds caused by the death of green, due to the soiled waves in the oceans and in the lakes. No one can use the water efficiently unless a clean area is found, but that will become soiled in time, too.

The enchanting waves lost their wonder when intoxicating oil unleashed itself onto their surfaces. Unwelcomed, the trash and the rubbish further weakened the water’s life, killing it with its fragmented degree.

And with the lifeless bricks and heinous trash, comes the dust and the dirt that invades the air around me, slowly weakening life on every end.

This death is making me feel sick.

With my forehead overheating, I’m losing control, but I have little to help heal the destruction I’ve faced. I cannot challenge the progressively worsening atmosphere alone. The footprints come and go too quickly and in too big of groups for me to solely clean all of their leftover dirt.

I need the shoes dusted off before they’re used in order to not leave as many footprints because some parts of me have become so ruined that they’re deadly to go near. This death will only spread like a wildfire with each lifeless brick added, and in the process, I will become less and less whole.

The ample eternal fields and clear oceans are simply an afterthought, a mere memory to clutch onto as the fire on me rages and burns each consecutive part of my soul.

I ache for a time absent of this destruction, but eventually, I will desire what I have now because although now I may not be whole, soon, I will be nothing.