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The Goddess and Me


I was walking to work on an ordinary day, completely unaware of the extraordinary events about to unfold. The sky was its usual shade, the streets familiar, and yet, as I walked, everything shifted. Above me, a spaceship descended, its design eerily reminiscent of the one from "Flight of the Navigator," sleek and alien, yet oddly comforting. In a flash of light, I was beamed aboard, leaving behind the world I thought I knew.

The ship wasn’t just a machine. It was alive, observing, and deeply aware of the fragile state of humanity. It had chosen me—a representative of a species on the brink—to preserve and carry forward the essence of human existence. Onboard, I discovered an environment untouched by time. Injuries healed instantly, aging halted, and immortality became my new reality. There was a seating area filled with cushions, soft and inviting, and a massive monitor that displayed Earth below.

Time aboard the ship moved differently. As I watched through the monitor, I saw my planet’s timeline accelerate. In a split second, Earth’s seasons shifted, its landscapes transformed, and eventually, it fell silent. My home, once teeming with life, had succumbed to time and fate. The weight of this reality settled in, and though the ship was designed to be a sanctuary, I felt the gnawing ache of loneliness.

Sensing my despair, the ship sought to ease my solitude. It searched the cosmos and brought someone into my life—a woman who became my companion. She was kind, curious, and full of ideas. One day, she suggested something simple yet profound: a picnic on a distant, uninhabited planet. We found a world with no life but breath-taking beauty—a beach with an endless sea, where the horizon stretched forever.

The picnic started like a moment of peace, but then the unexpected happened. She had a nosebleed, a small streak of blood that fell onto the pristine sand. Alarmed, we returned to the ship, where the bleeding stopped, and she returned to her immortal state. But the damage had been done. The blood mingled with the sea, and from that seemingly innocuous act, life began to stir. The ocean teemed with microscopic beginnings that evolved rapidly into complex organisms, creating a new cycle of life.

Over time, this new civilization began to grow, and their reverence for the woman—whose blood had sparked their creation—turned into worship. They saw her as a goddess, a divine being who gave them life. But as with many civilizations, reverence turned to division, and division turned to war. Nations fought over their interpretations of her significance, and the planet descended into chaos.

We returned, hoping to bring peace to the planet born of an accident, but our intervention was met with hostility. One faction saw us as saviours, the other as intruders. The situation escalated quickly, and we were attacked, barely escaping back to the ship. From the safety of the monitor, we watched the war rage on, fearing the worst.

And yet, after the fire and fury of conflict, something remarkable happened. The warring factions, exhausted and broken, found common ground. Peace emerged from the ashes, fragile but real. The planet began to heal, and its people started to thrive in unity. As we watched, there was a bittersweet satisfaction in knowing that something good could come from so much chaos, even if we couldn’t be part of it.

This story has stayed with me for decades, evolving in my mind as I’ve reflected on its meaning. It’s a tale of creation and destruction, loneliness and connection, and the unintended consequences of even the smallest actions. It’s also a reminder of the resilience of life, the ability to find peace after conflict, and the strange beauty of being a part of something greater than yourself.

Maybe it’s just a story, a fragment of my imagination. Or maybe it’s a question: What would you do if you were chosen to witness the rise and fall of worlds? If you carried the weight of loneliness and the power to create life, even by accident? I don’t have answers, but this story keeps asking those questions, even now.

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