Nature Vs. Man

She’s had multiple names over the years, still does, and remembers each one. Dharti, Gaea, Terra, Coatlicue, and so many more. Some of these names have faded into obscurity, while others have remained prevalent. Her current one, at least the most well-known one is Mother Nature. It would be a sweet sentiment if those who named her that could treat her that way too.

She muses at this too, a title given to her when she never needed one. She doesn't remember having a name, she only has so many because humans feel an incessant need to give everything a name, whether they understand it or not. Especially if they don't understand it. It seems silly to her.

Yet, these silly beings have been the ones who've so drastically changed her face. She has been around for a long, long time, immortal, she supposes is the word. Or God. Maybe god with a small 'g'. She doesn't know, nor does she care. She only cares about her children.

On the good days, she's proud of them. They've come so far, farther than any of her other children, and she would be lying if she claimed that their achievements didn't give her any pleasure. 

On the bad days, she can barely contain her rage. She sees the harm done to her other children, and it wrenches at her heart like someone is cutting the strings of her heart with a knife, one by one.

She's tried to help, given her other children weapons to defend themselves, given them poisons and venom, spikes and strength. And yet, to her irritation, the humans found a way around that too. They extracted poison and turned it into medicine. They plucked spines and hung them up as ornaments. They have left no opportunity untouched to prove their dominance.

They leave her no choice. Millennia of being around have given her unreserved patience, but even that has its limits. And she can take a lot, but she cannot bear further harm to her children.

Even then, she tries. She tries to hold back, to give warnings, but there's only so long she can stopper her anger. Eventually, the rage, grief and fear pent up inside overflows. At first, leaking slowly, occasionally, but slowly, the flow gets heavier, more impactful.

Disastrous.

And some of the humans notice, all of them do, really. But so few try to find out what's wrong. And even fewer act to fix it.

It enrages her.

Resilience is a virtue but taken too far, it becomes destructive stubbornness. It blinds you, turning self-assurance into a protective bubble, one that blocks out any criticism of your ideals, regardless of its nature.

She thinks humanity is trapped in that bubble. She wants them to break out, but she doesn't know if they can. So, rage leaks through, and some of her children suffer so the rest can stay safe.

Call it revenge, vengeance, whatever. But it still hurts.

She sighs and would've been startled had she not had an eternity of experience. 

A small child. 

She usually restrains herself from looking at individuals, she finds it futile, but the child catches her eye.

He is so small, toddling up to a hole so fast she's afraid they might fall in. But he doesn't, and when he kneels down, she notices a small sapling. 

He puts the sapling inside, and gets up, half caked in dirt, to his mother who smiles at him and ruffles his hair. 

It softens something inside her. 

Maybe that sapling won't even survive a month. Maybe it'll grow to live for two hundred years. 

Maybe if there's more like him. 

Maybe.