Perhaps the people of the world had not agreed to be made. There was no prior acknowledgement, no sense of true acquiesce before coming into existence, yet there was an unquestioning nature amongst them.
“Asdow wore Kaore, Asdow wani Dowa,” they would say. “We came to Earth, We remain on Earth.”
That was the sentiment of the land: the resignation that although they played no part in their own creation, they did have a very defined and tangible influence on their destinies, a privilege that they would seek out and fulfill at its fullest.
The people of Aorsi were created by a mere spark: a spark of passion, of love, of peace, of revolution. It was enough to ignite the world on fire and leave the created entranced and awakened. From that spark, there came destruction, and from destruction, there came ashes. Those ashes remained for many moons. They witnessed the eternal reverie of their creator, the sorrow of a world destroyed by just a spark: the mere flutter of a butterfly, it seemed, had wiped out an entire world.
The Creator cried woefully, yet silently, his tears the materialization of a consolation that would not come. A single crystal tear landed on the ashes. The Creator turned away shamefully.
There’s a lot to be said about the power of tears, that is indeed true. Yet much more should be spoken about the power of oasudi. Oasudi: the sounds we make when we cry, the noises we make, our way of grasping for words when emotions consume us.
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