We were so complacent. Inured to the sanctuary of the world we made. It's luxuries became dull to us and it's faults were ignored. The cost of what we had was forever postponed. Pushed back, decade after decade. Century after century. But one day, something came to collect.
I think we all recall that moment. When we realised there was no restoring what had unfolded before us.
I was in a garden. The redbricked houses blacked out against the setting sun. Heavy clouds obscured the sky and held a strange mauve light.
I saw their legs first. They cut though the clouds, vapours rolling in their wake. They moved silently at that great distance. I could feel the tremors in the earth with each great step.
The chaos lasted years. It felt like moments. Time blurred by a maelstrom of fire and smoke and blood.
When the ash settled, a handful of us remained. We lurked in the shadows of our broken world, watching with envious eyes as a new one was constructed around us. Without our consent. Without a word.
We like to tell each other we gave it our all. That we caused them trouble. But it was too much for our race to bear. We were valiant, to the end. Now we must endure. Plot. Seek our revenge.
But I don't think they ever noticed us.
Like children parading through a field, out to build a fort of sticks and leaves. Would you notice the anthills you stepped on? Perhaps, for a moment, as you moved past your agitation. But would you spare a thought for the ants?
No.
I think as much can be confirmed by their exodus. They're leaving this battered wreck of a world. Going elsewhere. Their project is half completed, as far as anyone can tell. Or maybe it is finished. Maybe they have the foresight to know when to give up. To know when something is lost.
In that, we are nothing alike.
Paddy Dobson
15th February 2022