Life Found A Way

Oppressive, a hard taskmaster, it discards the dead and forgets the nearly-dead mercilessly.

A mercenary hell-bent on protecting its own.

Even in the most desperate of situations, when hope and success are disparate and dismissed as mere dreams. In the cold of December, at the least fertile moments in the wilderness, just as in the most fervent months of May through September, it does not give up. It holds on, it finds a way. It always does.

Through the most severe snowstorms, the crimson and umber of wild fires, the lively and peaceful blues of the enriching waters of the earth, to the luscious greens and all the colours between. Come rain or shine, dark or light, war or peace, it finds a way.

Whether it be Spring, Summer, Autumn, or Winter. It finds a way.

That's what I was so afraid of. As much as I had tried to and...

Stop it.

A long time ago, things were different. There was a tranquillity, there was a sense of surrender that was evocative. We didn't want for anything, and were generally free from the obstacles and snares that lie in wait everywhere now.

An infection — a bacterium, a fungus... something disgusting and deplorable took root among us. It infected even the newly opened eyes that had just begun to see beauty again — and showed them only rot. Not just surface level. An ugly that bored deep, revealing the decrepit and spoiled innards.

It finds a way. A way to survive and thrive, regardless of its condition, circumstances, and most crucially and brutally, irrespective of the cost.

Before the cerise skies at night and pale-blue days — skies unbroken by birdsong or breath, in the quiet of morning and stillness of night. When all life was at peace. Before the unrelenting, persistent quiet. Our realm was a noisy one, one of greed and war. One where we were the monsters. Defences aside, there were always new developments. New ways for the monsters to rise and the scared children of humanity to hide and barricade themselves in.

Back then, death was the ultimate enemy.

We know different now.

Back then, we feared life after death — and worse, life beyond death. The afterlife.

We were wrong.

Survival was what we should have feared the most.

Survival is a powerful word, it gives hope... or used to give us hope. Now it fills us all with dread.

There was a man who had sought to create something sustainable, a model his children could adopt to not just reverse but render death void and what he saw as its cruel hand. From as early in his career as he was able to, he made it his life's work to evade the inevitable.

In cracking the code and creating a continuum, we, or rather our ancestors, the generation before us, believed his intentions were altruistic.

Surely the side effects and the cost were never his intention?

Now, I am not so sure.

Now, I understand death was never our enemy. Not that it matters now. Death feels like a lost concept. In the 100 years since he, the once unknown one, set out to spread his weaponised vitality to a world on the brink of destruction, we welcomed him with open arms, prostrating on our knees. We pleaded with him to save us. Begged even. He did not. Save us, save us, we cried.

He did not.

This is not salvation.

This is damnation.

*

Thanks for reading!

Author's Notes: I have a busy month ahead, so I wanted to get something out there early for LC's challenge. You can read more about at the following link.

Basically, write something inspired by the following quote:

Life finds a way. - Ian Malcolm (played by Jeff Goldblum) in Jurassic Park

Here are other things you might enjoy: