It was me who had caused the cataclysm that uprooted the world from its complacent slumber. I had wished for it. Like the tragedy that spurns one man on to greatness in the face of adversity, I felt our home crying out for it. I was crying out for it.
Something that would splinter the myriad of misplaced values, shatter the ribcage of hierarchial glut, awaken perception of a dormant and far too eagerly swayed populous, and give rise to a platform of potential. A blank canvas, graced by a sweeping brush of awareness and love. Held firmly by a collective hand where beauty cannot exist unless every single cell has been allowed to embody its absolute empowered being. A canvas that would rightfully remain blank, without the unconditional acceptance of all who hold that brush.
Is it possible that such a collective might be capable of a unified masterpiece wrought of pure truth? If this is the case, are we not already the inspired vision in the artist's mind, awaiting only the event that releases the full spectrum of the most captivating and necessary artwork that humanity has ever seen?
And so it was. The turbulence that ensued across our tiny planet ruptured the very core of perception. It shook awake in terrible throes a civilisation so rooted in ignorance, that the greatest opportunity for evolution we had ever seen, was met with wild eyed fear and self indulgent pity.
But then we became aware of ourselves. At last. And we saw the perfection in our history. We could see it step by step, and as with all adversity, we became grateful for the challenge. And we saw the world, unadorned before us. And we knew we could begin again. With love.
It was me who had caused the cataclysm that uprooted the world from its complacent slumber. I had wished for it.
Maybe we all had.