“It’s your turn.” They tell me, “It’s your season.
Sitting calmly in the sky I watch with despair as my mere presence causes the once green leaves to slowly lose their pigments and retire towards the ground. The beauty of the environment my brothers worked so endlessly perfecting, I destroy within a month or so. It isn’t my fault though. It’s just how I was made.
“You’re the last born child. A prince with the blood of Uranus coursing through your abstract veins. Whether or not your presence attracts the darkest of days, you are a royal. Privileged beyond anything that abides under Uranus’ blue protection. Privileged beyond anything that passes by the flowers that spring from the palm of my hand and the waters that overflow from my favourite chalice. Let your brothers mock you but each of them have their faults. Let Temperature mock you but you control Temperature. You are you and no other, do not try to be another.” Mother Gaia said this only once to me, but I swear by the gods I hear her voice repeat these words everyday.
Despite the supposed reminders about who I truly am or who I am not, not once does a year slip by that I don’t weep bitterly and curse Chaos under my wind. It is he I admire, but it is he I despise too. The Father of all that exists within the dark void Uranus selflessly protects us from. I’ve asked father about it once. About what would happen to us if he removes the foamy, blue sea that floats above us. I saw a smile but heard no response. It was on that day that the worst storm I have ever experienced made it’s debut, and I know without a doubt that the storm was his answer. He somehow defined chaos in a way that only Chaos could describe it.
Well I’ve decided to resign from my work. Mother Gaia and Father Uranus will be disappointed but I’ve made my choice. I pack my tools and rise from my workstation. It looks like this year will, fortunately or unfortunately, experience the earliest and longest winter it will ever experience now that I’m gone.
-Cole
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