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A World Of Our Own

By @Churro


The world has changed a great deal since our fall. The regal mountains galavant endlessly across the globe, and the forests are boundless and untamed, forever reaching out into eternity.. Each chunk of moss an emerald, every fern a meticulously machined gladius. The air is invigorating, with each breath a heavy dose of adrenaline. Creatures of infinite variety frolick carelessly or sprint endlessly across the lovingly outstretched palms of wilderness. The oceans are intoxicatingly blue, like a few thousand liquified bouts of late night loneliness, ready to swallow you whole should you oblige.

Earth has reverted to a truthfully raw form. It is beautiful. It is violent. It is, most of all, free.

But this transformation is not without reason, nor consequence. For the right-hand man of freedom is independence, and what is independence but loneliness garnished with sweetly venomous arrogance and served with a heavy dose of responsibility. The waiter of the world is a cruel one, taking his sweet time to bring your order, leaving you to twiddle your thumbs at the dimly lit table. And he often forgets to put the pickles on the side, even when you ask him nicely. You see, despite its beauty, the world has grown lonely. So very lonely.

So lonely, in fact, that the little community in which i resided believed itself to be the final cradle, or potentially coffin, of civilization. Believed that we were the very last of the cursed, beloved human race. Now, this belief spawned extensive obstacles for me, to say the least, but that sop story is another can of worms entirely, a can which we will save for later. We must ration food, you see, especially the canned, non perishable kind.

I lived within a small weaving of families, a hundred people or so. We were all that was left, or at the very least, most of what was left. We were a very… traditional community. I don’t know if the word traditional is appropriate to use here, seeing as any and all record of tradition has been purged from the globe, but regardless, I will use it. The whole place is walled in, with the exception of a couple gates, and the two houses outside the walls, mine and Sam’s. Everyone knew everyone, everyone had a job to do, respect your elders, don’t talk back to you parents, yada yada. That’s about it. Oh, also, we were encouraged to, ahem, ‘procreate’ from the ripe old age of thirteen.

I don’t yet know if this is to be read, but mayhaps this chronicle of mine will survive, and, better yet, be graced by a set or perhaps an entire collection of human eyes. I should imagine the owners of said eyes would have a few questions for me, should these times of mine be one day forgotten by residents of the seemingly bleak future. To those most precious curious ones, I relay a proverb. Good things come to those who wait, unless the who in question is waiting to decide whether or not they will hook up with Sam from next-door and further the human race as the community expects them to. Good things do not come to those people, I assure you. I would know.

I hope you can learn from the sentences and paragraphs that I shall meticulously sew together into some patchwork recollection for you. If nothing else, I hope that you can encounter some laughter as you peruse my thoughts, stumbling and staggering onward from page to page, attempting to leave behind my past and the relentless stupidity that hovers over like an ominous raincloud. Perhaps you’ll run into some tears as well. They tend to dwell in the caves and dark places of my mind, lying in wait for some oblivious reader such as yourself to stumble into their path.

Irrelevant to this tale but obligatory nonetheless, hello. My name is Alex.

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