Destruction and Creation

Across this world, I see the pattern repeated over and over. The same hubris. The same destruction. The same death. But this monstrosity towers over them all.

Bricks upon bricks, towering up to the sky itself. As if the designer deemed themselves a god, and wished to reach upwards to find the majesty of Heaven. What else could explain this temple? This site of insanity? And what could possibly justify the means in which it was built?

No creatures left upon this land, slaughtered as they were to feed an army of slaves. Nothing left now but the walking dead, their moans acting as eulogy to the world that once was. No trees left, and only the sparsest of grass is left within this wasteland. The sky weeps, and its tears which bear the title of rain, carry the soil out into the sea. The land is bleeding, and the festering sore where blood was first shed remains.

I see the mines in which they dug. Slaves by the hundreds, braving the terrors that lurk beneath the cold earth, so that its riches might be used to reach upwards. I see portals torn in the fabric of reality, so that the designer could get the most precious of materials to build his monument to himself. And I see it now, abandoned, as thousands have been likewise.

For what is creation, if not a form of destruction?