The Little Girl That Grew On My Head

I grew a little girl on my head as the skies turned red with smears of unwanted and wanted blood. Her weight was as heavy as a pencil, and her eyes were as deep as an empty wishing well, barred from hands that reached for drowning dreams. We watched the blood from the horizon smear down into the ocean. What a sight. The sun was setting between mountainous folding clouds that parted from the light. But everything was melting into an oceanic puddle of everything ruined. But it was beautiful.

I didn’t know why she grew there. Maybe she was the untouched conscience, the one that suffered most. She was the most natural element from humanity that hasn’t been shaded by any kind of man-made chemical or influence. And she was dying. Her frail body struggled to watch with me as she sat on my shoulder.

We saw the waves grow bigger and bigger. I thought how strong the ocean was, its current moving like a silent cyclone from below. For a moment I closed my eyes and heard its deep rumble. It was deeper than a typhoon’s thunder. And I felt the ground with my hands and pressed hard against it, the earth was still alive, dominant and powerful.

Of course it was. It has been breathing for billions of years, through fire, ice and fallen stars. Its path has already been made; it knows where it is going. And I thought about the destruction we’ve caused and how we abused then tried to save it. I looked at my hands and looked at the horizon, “What have we done?” Then the little girl from my shoulder whispered so carefully to my ear.

“Mother Earth doesn’t need saving. It’s doing fine. What you need to worry about is your own race.”

And I sat there in shock as I thought I was watching the end of the world, but no world was ending, only humanity.