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by Tatyana Dobreva

Burzamot: an entity motivated by storm, turmoil, or unrest

I no longer wish to see the tranquil ocean, feel the gentle breeze on my face, or be greeted by perfect smiles. Those beauties own me. They are not mine. I am at unrest with contentment.

The new world is mute. There is life here. But it is broken. It wants to be alive again, but it is buried by all its failed attempts. I am broken too. That is why I came here. Not to isolate myself in a world that reaffirms fragmentation, but to rebuild both of us. 

A waking cycle passes. The precision of my fingers is immobilized by the bitter cold. I observe the insectile monarchs who made this once breathing world their paradise. I sense the planet’s yearning for the crown lost to these parasitic dwellers. I feel you. Too weak to fight, yet the ground trembles in subconscious battle.

I am up before the rise of the star. The rays are harbingers of the ongoing battle, powering your parasite. Bombarded by accumulating photons, branches shrivel. The soil hardens. What once brought joy is a reminder to unfulfilled desires.

I have spent many waking cycles here. Now I sense that you are less alone in my presence.

I seek to understand the process of your torment. Star above us. A sense of inquisition. Uncontrollable sweat drains my heat. I watch the little march of scarlet soldiers on a tree's naked limbs. They force open its leaves and attach themselves to what appears to be the mechanism for collecting and converting star's energy. My hands ablaze, I lean in to observe subtle vibrations. 

The planet emanates a pulse of resistance. I soothe it with my insignificant warmth. 

I look down and watch the tiny army satiate their thirst through my perspiration. Despite the pain they cause this planet, I am curious about their kingdom. Is their victory unjustified? 

Reduced to an imperfect semicircle by the world's horizon, the star fades.

Cimmerian darkness returns again.

Trepidation amplified by the haunting silence. I am in terror. There is no safety, not here nor in memories of comfort. Beyond every wall there will always be something to fear.

I let the panic run its course. The ground I lay on feels as familiar as my skin. Worn down, I collapse. One eye still open, I watch the soldiers asleep in a fortress built from incomplete attempts at land's rebirth.

It becomes lucid to me. This world fights an uphill battle, whose struggle flows from its own resistance to adaptation.

This place has hope, for it has nothing. All attempts continuously erased by visits of the ancient tempests.

I become unsettled by my desire to save the fragile roots of this world's stubborn rebellion.

Hunger. Jitters. Lonely. Cold. Hot. Yet, I harbor no anger towards the chaotic beasts. Slashed and scattered, their return excites me. Cyclones of entropy.

I feel the planet exhale. I feel it merging with my realization. This is not a battle between a planet and its parasites. For each fights a unique battle for its survival.

I inhale the cyclone. It spits me out. I return. Until the respired land adapts. Until I am.

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