The world is a pinecone. Some physicists debate crackpot theories about soap bubbles, stacks of paper, and string theory, but when you think about it, a pinecone makes sense (no, really).
Consider: A pinecone is layered. Layers upon layers of reality, each one within the next.
But pinecones are also fragile, brittle. Vulnerable to smashing, cracking, and breaking into small, dusty fragments and leftover seeds. Small children make entire games out of hunting down fallen pinecones and stamping them to bits while they laugh angelically. How truly brutal and terrifying. Ah, humanity. I’d say never change, but that’d be a lie. In fact, cease to exist, please and thank-you.
Still other young’ins gently carry pinecones off the ground, and treat them like pets or children, clad in odd, fine clothes. Either that, or they’re used as cuddle toys and nesting material.
That’s the thing with humanity, really. So awfully bipolar.
The poor pine trees are already traumatised from their own fall to the ground, and eventual germination while the rest of their brethren were ferreted out and disposed of. Now, while still high above, yet still vulnerable to the metal teeth of a chainsaw, they watch human children carefully, with surgical precision. You never know which type of child it shall be.
Sometimes, they smile at the sky. The tree branches shake in response.
‘AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA’
‘oh god, ohgodohgod, it’s looking at me’
‘make it go awayyyyyyyy’
‘why me, great pinecone? why’
Indeed, the world is layers upon layers, pinecone scales upon pinecone scales, closing in in one another until wea reach the core of it all, the heart of the multiverse, the essence of the pinecone we call ‘The Multiverse’
[The Multiverse]
Indeed, the world is a pinecone, holder of seeds. The seeds of a tree, the settings of a game.
[Seeds]
[Trees]
[Branches]
[Leaves]
Bourne of a pinecone, made of a pinecone.
Indeed, to think of the world of a pinecone should not be a strange thought at all, philosophical as it's existence is. Perhaps one day, the human child to our own version of the universe shall descend, smashing us all to small fragments and splinters.
You think I’m crazy now, don’t you?
Judge all you want.
You’re merely human, after all.
Aren’t you?
