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πŸ“… Published on January 26, 2010


Written by D.A. Wilcox

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Estimated reading time β€” 4 minutes

This message is my map, and this map is my message.

The earth here is thin. I move about it so freely, and the ease of it is a delicious thing, but it is also frightful. I dig my inscriptions by feel and touch, and because I know the earth, I know that this will be massive for your senses.

Here in this layer of the planet, I am inbetween my people and your people. I float about in this soft soil like a drifting bubble, weightless and yet handled so delicately within my surroundings that my fragile dome will never burst. I am fit to drift along in euphoria. I would do this forever, if granted the chance, but I have responsibilities to my people, and to our Mother.

If I were to glide about, dreamlessly, in this infinite expanse of softrock, a few fathoms beneath your manmade pave-veins, I would lose myself in the arms of Mother, and she would love to have me lost. That exquisite moment will not arrive until your end-time comes. For now, I must finish the task I have been chosen for by our matron. She was born from the hardrock and the fire at the very core of Mother, and so I cherish and love her for choosing me to finish this map for our people.

If I were to abandon my quest and return home now, I could be in the heartfire of earth within two of Mother’s circles. Perhaps that holds no meaning for you, but because I have lurked just beneath the pave-vein in your greatest den and homestead of New York City, I know that the word I must use is “years.” You measure your core by a finite passage of time in units. We measure ours by Mother Earth herself, as you once did before in history, before you created the deathly grid and thought yourselves too intelligent to honor Mother. This is what saddens her, and this is the cause of the war between my people and your people.

It has taken me over one thousand of your years to reach the earth just below your pave-veins and grids of softrock. At first, I did not understand, and I would glide along through the thin places as your slow moving metal boxes with the rubber feet would adhere to the limited paths that you have provided for them. They are lumbering beasts, unable to dig, deaf and dumb constructs that are reflective of their creators. I do not pity you, because if you had used her gifts the way they were meant to be used, you would be as my people are now.

I traveled up from the heartfire at the core, and I learned your grid. I have traveled it, mapped it, and meticulously crafted the crooked places above the soil. They are illogical. Why you take the softrock from Mother’s ample womb and move it to create your own veins is beyond me. It is disgusting, and it gives me more purpose to fulfill what the matron has sent me to your thinplace for. Mother’s veins are designed to be flowed through, to be embraced and traveled as they were created. What you do to her is an abomination.

We hear her soft whimpers at night when we try to sleep, and it pains us. The core of fire at her heart is our resting place, and now it is plagued by the agonized wails of the planet. She hid her grief and pain from us, but the noise was too great for us to sleep. You have made us restless.

It took time for us to coax her in to revealing the source of her sorrow and anguish. That source is you and your people. You have assaulted the most beautiful of beautiful things, and for this, we hate you. You have brought this on yourself.

By the time one of your geologists finds this long message, riddled throughout the endless tunnels and archways within Mother that I have dug, it will be too late. The map is already almost finished. What I dig now is only superfluous to our real motivations. I dig this message now to provide an explanation, a reason for what we are about to do. We feel that we do not owe you this. Mother feels differently, despite her scars, and so we honor her wishes.

The dig from the core has been long. When I first began in the expanses of hardened molta, I moved slowly. Her screams chased me through the trenches of stone and furious flame as your years passed, and you continued to wound her further. Her pain was my pain, and so my progress quickened. Feeling the shudders of Mother, she caused me to burn bright, to blast through the hardrock and reach the thin places where I can move like one of your bullets.

The number of trenches and veins that I have burned through her is incomprehensible to your kind. They are all pathways for my people to travel from the core of fire to your thin place. I have mapped her for them, and so they need only unleash our message to you in the boughs of the clouds. You will see the sky burn as bright as our home at her center, and all of you will perish.

It will take us some time to overgrow your atrocious pave-veins with our earth, but we will help her. We will blast them in to oblivion as easily as we will blast from the map beneath your beasts on rubber. We will reap the cause of her pain away in one ascending windfall, and then her wails may soften. Eventually, she will be gleeful and throbbing with life once more, and we will fall fitfully asleep, as we should be now, if it were not for your people.

This map is my message, and I am growing tired of your thin place in the crust beneath your metropolis dens. They are an affliction on Mother’s perfect face, and because you have marred her beautiful cheeks with her own tears, we will rend you with the very fire that we were born from.

CREDIT: D.A. WilcoxΒ 

πŸ”” More stories from author: D.A. Wilcox

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