Renewed

Eden Irving

We settle down en masse to tune in to our favourite little drama. The Milky Way pulls up a chair; the stars allow the asteroids to sit upon their heated laps to see. Gravity drops off some matter to consume, as we waft away the occasional bit of… what did they call it in the show? Space junk? We shoo it off to get a clear view. It all goes quiet and still, as the ball of contradiction turns on, like one of their infinitesimal children’s toys.

Sometimes we struggle to keep track of its name; it changes so rapidly. Some call it Bumi. Or Terre. Nchi. Earth. Aarde. Tune in at the wrong angle or shine its sun off kilter, then everything goes upside down, all lopsided and confused. When that happens, we need to adjust our constellations and pay attention to catch translations and spelling. We’ve been watching for the past few millennia. We missed the beginning, so are trying to pick up context clues of where this all came from, how long ago it debuted. Seems they can’t commit to continuity. Typical.

This little globe turns, the seasons roll on, our attention spans wane. The oceans rise and fall again, the fires burn in the background, as our protagonists debate wars, genocide and the latest digital trend. They bring in the occasional storyline, all with pitiful shock and drama, each episode or two. The odd scandal. Their silly sports days and who’s barred from them because of biology or societal makeup. Occasional power outages. Sometimes, if we’re lucky, watching a species die out just as the night draws in.

The seasons pass. Our bacteria and atoms itch for something new. We spin the sphere to keep up with the hours, curious where the gazes of our good selves will land. Nothing interesting happens at night on this world; just murder and sex scenes. We follow along as the humans lose their place and start to flee. We sit back and settle in as the borders collapse, as the temperature rises, and our experiment of entertainment gets good again.

The light in their eyes diminishes as the finale draws near. They trim the cast down – a well thought out decision. We watch life whittled away by the gifts they take for granted. We note and tally on the back of stray astral beings who goes when, quizzing each other about who died first, debating who was the main character all along.

Soon, light dies. We turn down the sun, tired and aching, as drowsiness approaches. We stay present enough to see the final human, staggering through the Himalayan mountains to escape the oceans and ash. They lie down and begin to accept what’s next. They turn, and seem to look up, up, up. They reach out their frail, jagged arm in their final move, staring at us.

The credits roll.

We’re confused, unsure what the narrative choice was there. Was it meant to make us think? Were we meant to be included all along? We could interact?

We move back for a while, adjusting to the absence of our little programme. The stars come and go. The moons live and die. Maybe when we’re present enough, we’ll find a new show. Something to hook us better next time. Maybe we won’t see them to the end.