How incredible it is. Some will tell you that they were the bastard species that clawed it’s way to the top of the world and survived just long enough to mean something. Some will tell you that because they created elaborate history for themselves that they meant something. But they failed to create without destroying. Even in the beginning, with every step they took into the future they trampled the past. Small beings they were. Only five or eight pounds each of them, extremely complex beings. I have spent a lifetime studying them, observing, watching, and still i do not know more than what I started with. But how can I, an outsider, understand a race that failed in all it’s time to understand itself.

Biologically they were meant to populate, as all species are, but they were not satisfied with the mere life that comes with being, it was far too temporary. They began to evolve into a purified form of the creators, the best for what they had planned, first the strongest physically to lay the foundation, then the mentally achieved to build and form in an art itself that could never be mimicked, for it was in the truest of intention. However, as you will come to note, everything they ever did was purely selfish, driven by means to stay living, then to live well.

They  began to fear the temporary, to fear being forgotten, it drove them mad. Their hands created physical representations screaming “I was here! Look upon what I have done and remember who I was! I beg of you!” , desperate attempts to outlive themselves crowded their land and buried their planet. How foolish of them, to look into the eyes of their most permeant creations and not see the significance. They would build just to watch it fall apart and weep into the arms of their legacies. Each of them telling the story of those who came before in their eyes, and hair, and hands: and each of them failing to recognize the beauty in it all, the beauty in themselves.

As they began to melt and mold the delicate stain glass of their future, some pieces were held over flame for too long in attempt to produce the purist clarity and that which was in vain burned too strongly would blacken to a gross opaque. Never leaving the art, but as more beautiful pieces were added the small opaque areas would become overlooked and forgiven. This would happen to the beautiful pieces also. The large successes of the past would over time dull and dim in their vibrancy, and be passed over by the eye; because to celebrate all triumphs would be to cease the continuation in pursuit to do better. At some point they had to accept the miracles as norms and press on into the future.

Eventually they required too much. Their insatiable hunger to out-do required too much of their planet meant for simply being. The stain glass world they surrounded themselves in became a beautiful tomb of the past. How ironic that is? The only way to be satisfied in their work meant to insure no further progress. No further life, for their species or otherwise.

In the final moments, when the last breath was drawn and the last man fell, a minuscule world was beginning just beneath them; waiting for it’s turn to claw itself out. How incredible that is.