Sunday, 12 July 2015

The Party's Over.

The weak light of dawn creeps into my eyes, chasing monsters from the shadows of my dreams. The smell of corrupted earth fills my nostrils, and silence lays heavily on my ear. My head feels swollen, straining at the inside of my skull, while something rotten slithers through my guts. I wish for sleep to take me once more, but it too has betrayed me. I lift one heavy eyelid and regard the world through a bloodshot iris.

Tiny dust devils are born, only to die in an instant. Nothing else moves in this wasteland of excess. I am alone, the last of my kind. From sky’s edge, to sky’s edge, the earth has been ripped apart, and now its bones lie bleaching in the sun. I blink painfully and feel guilt and desolation, in equal measure.

I’d known this place as a rolling sea of green, vibrant with life and goodness. That was until, the lust filled heart of man had focused on it. At first, they came gently, bearing plans and dreams. Then came more, each adding their own portion of want, to the demand already placed on this delicate oasis.

The riggers, the builders, the gaffers and crew. The stage men, the roadies’, the teckies came too.

From all corners they arrived, erecting an altar, from which the Gods, of a modern era, could speak to the masses. When the monument was complete, the lush valley was scared, but still it survived. Nature adapted to its new appendage with practiced ease. Sadly, that was when the flood began, a flood of the most toxic substance ever know.

They came in their thousands, an unstoppable tide of greed, and I came too. A beer, a burger, a song, a band, a lover- one is just never enough. We gorged ourselves on all, and consumed until we were bloated. The party raged, and no matter how much we had, we cried out for more. Nothing could satisfy our desire. That was, until we ran out completely.
We ran out of hours, and alcohol, we ran out of bands, and songs, while the ground beneath us ran out of life.

I rise from my dusty bed and look at what I’ve left behind. Not a blade of grass, not a leaf on a tree, has survived our madness. A toxic lake of piss, which will never see a fishing line, a land, pummelled to oblivion by a million stomping feet. Was it all worth it? How dull the vast steel stage looks, now it’s lost its magical coat of light.

I guess the party’s over, and I’m the last of my kind.

Soon, I too will be no more. 

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