The Spirit of Earth.

Against a faded backdrop, colors drained away and lifeless, the starchild stands in front of a wall of images. A small device beeps as it flicks rapidly through the grainy photos, a window into another time spattered with images of both beauty and chaos, the history of the planet Earth. Flickering her eyes as photos swiftly pass her by, the starchild stops the stream upon a specific, a image of post-war generationals sitting in harmony with flowers in their hair. Words written across the bottom of the screen quote an unfamiliar song to her.

I am he as you are he as you are me and we are all together…”

She whispers the words, hearing their meaning echo through the images, like a record skipping it becomes her mantra. From unknown sources the sound of the song begins to play, softly in the background.

“These words. Written into song, sang through generations, remembered by many. What are they but transcendent thoughts? Thoughts that bloom like a flower placed in the barrel of a gun, withering away while protesting violence and demanding for a change that cannot come. To make love, not war, was their mentality. As beautiful as it was, it was nothing more than an ideal of perspective planted, taking root but never budding.”

Like a flowering plant, the images spring to life again, starting at the birth of the planet and flashing like lightning across all it has experienced in its growth.

“This old world goes round and round. Spinning, pinning to the ground. Has been for eons, before you or I or anyone else set foot here. And now we look to change it, rearrange it, to our own liking. There is a likeness in you and I, a desire to change the planet, but we are recklessly naive in our desires. We cannot change which has always been here. You and your infinite wisdom must know by now, Chosen one, that reality is made up of perception and you alone cannot change that perception.”

The stream of images continues to flash by once again. Life and death, growth and decay, the pictures spin around as they form together to create one. A pulsating three dimensional model of the Earth, made up of its history, which Lyra stares deeply at with a wistful look her eye.

“Yours and mine, his and hers and every other being, interconnectedly make up this reality. Not even your omnipotent Zeta can disable that balance, throw this spinning wheel off course, it is as it is and as it always will be. Those intertwined with this planet are here because they have perceived themselves to be so. They are the architects of time and existence upon this place. A place birthed so long ago that it cannot be contained to only one perspective, but is now a grandiose manifestation of all…

This cannot be changed.”

With a sense of sadness in her voice, she steps towards the projected globe and traces her fingers through the lights that make up the image.

“Just as they cannot be saved…

Unless they should collectively believe that they are worth saving. From what I have gathered from living among the earth beings, they are far from agreeing upon where salvation comes from. Let alone them trying to grasp the truth in the collective consciousness that makes up all that they are, where they themselves recognize that together they hold the key to their future.”

A silver light shimmers across the surface of the globe, showing the connections between all living things upon its surface, until its entirety is completely lit up like a star. The light is so blinding that Lyra turns herself away, before it suddenly pulses to a low red hue.

“They cannot be destroyed…”

She turns herself back to view that the globe is encased in flames, blackened and burned, darkened to appear like a desolate wasteland.

“I do not mean to say that they will not come. Perhaps they will. It is only my perspective that wishes it not to be so. Your Zeta may indeed have their day in the Sun. Shall they rain fire from the heavens and destroy all that rests upon the surface of the Earth? Shall we watch it all burn away into ashes? Washed away in the rivers, will the blood meet the sea until there is no more blood to shed?  What is this but one perspective. Earth will still be here, vibrating in harmony with its solar source and long after the markings of death are eroded from its surface, perspective will rise again. Those who come after will grow wiser. There is nothing that can break the wheel, because it exists in a state where it can truly never be reached…”

Tiny silver tendrils begin to rise out of the red, brightening the room slowly as they grow, reaching outwards in tiny strands that appear to project a full sky of stars upon the ceiling. And while the globe still pulses red, the darkness enshrouding it no longer appears desolate, but hopeful…

“It is but a thought, a whisper of consciousness, sent into the infinite and lives on immortally in the spirit of the Earth.”