Dear, World

In the grand scheme of things, it is very odd of me to write to an entity such as yourself. Considering the fact that, well, you're not really alive. You're simply a word, a place.

A planet.

The only real thing that applies to your name is what lies upon your flesh. That of the small, inconspicuous creatures that crawl across your chin, and glowing green land that fills your hair. You're swollen with life, condemned with death. Tranced by sorrows, and enticed by joy. You are everything we want you to be, and more.

It's why I consider you my one (and only) home.

Nevertheless, despite you not being truly alive, you are very much real to us, because of what you hold. Because of who you care for, because of what you trust. They are the world, too.

Still, it isn't easy to love and cherish everything.

I, too, have heard the cries from afar. The violent howls of the night churn your coldest oceans, while the hisses fumes of forest fires char your skin. The heavens would quiver against the thunderclaps of bullets, fluster upon the tremors of bombs, and weep over your fallen paradise. Those cheering cries, those hideous screams... it plagues your mind. Must you bear this burden? Must you speak of such wretched horrors? When some would cry for help, must you turn your back?

Or do you have a choice?

The ground you hold would rock to and fro. The sky would cave into the earth. And the ground, once speckled of a palette of colors, would be littered by the darkest of crimson goo. The tears --oh so many -- have soaked your bosom my friend. They have dried your roots because of their salt. Twisted you inside out. Their origin, alas, I cannot say, but it lives everywhere.

And it hasn't stopped.

What is life, you dare ask, if filled with so much violence? Thriving off a dread not sought by man alone? If it is to be your reckoning, why must it make the pain slow? Why not mend the wounds you bear, or clean it out? 

In grief, old friend, I have no answer.

But all I know is that the world isn't filled with monsters. We aren't as demonic as the stars say we are, nor are we born this way. I don't see evil in our hearts, no desperation for hell. There are no good or bad people, there are just people. If such a sentence bears its truth then yes, everything is born out of hope. Nothing is truly dead, nothing is ever gone.

Nothing is evil.

Yet I fear for you, oh world, I fear for your choices. Those who lie upon you have the smallest chance to make a change, but can still change everything. It depends on what that change may be. Everything has done something in some way. 

The beasts of the past fought to live. They showed us their lives, their hopes and dreams, their pride. 

The ancients showed us the stars, the skies, the moons and beyond. 

The fighters proved what's right and wrong, moral and unjust. 

The youngsters gave us love. 

The elders gave us wisdom. 

And you... more than we could ever imagine. 

What have we to show ourselves, you ask? The future, if you will, if the world shall change again?

What stories will define us?

Perhaps its time for us to uncover these stories. Those that define what the world truly is. Those that help us learn, those that help us forget. Those entitled to our future, and those that may help us grow. From the wrathful seas to the burning skies, from the smallest insects to the giants that once roamed these grounds, everything has a story to tell... 

Perhaps it's time we share some of our own.

Perhaps it's time for you to seek it.