Earth is a selfish snob.
Oh, she’s pretty to be sure, but those swirling oceans and plush clouds are only atmosphere deep. I don’t mean that in a passive-aggressive backstabbing way, either. I’ve told that to her face.
It’s all just water with her. That, biodiversity and other big words like that. Blah blah blah. Just because she has some glorified algae crawling around and building suspension bridges doesn’t mean she’s all that.
I suppose I’m just bitter because it didn’t used to be that way. Earth used really fun when she was hanging out with Venus and me, complaining about plate tectonics and asteroid rights. But now, whenever she rotates by, she’s off her axis, screaming about how the humans are killing each other again.
Ugh. Those damn humans. Life is cool and all, but should any one thing occupy a planet’s existence? I’m not jealous mind you. How could I be jealous of minuscule flesh beasts with bare amounts of sentience? I look outward and see the sun writhing in hydrogen and helium. I see stars bursting from existence in halos of wrath and watch comets streak across the black. Why should I care if Earth never looks up from the scurrying little beasts beneath her clouds?
Okay, I admit it. I miss her. Venus is nice and all, but not much gets past that thick atmosphere of hers.
But whenever I try to get Earth to wake up and see the starlight, she tells me she’s too busy and coos over her little humans as if she were their whole universe, as if the universe wasn’t something that stretched far beyond a tiny rock planet in a remote corner of a tiny galaxy.
Venus says I’ve gone hard in the core and that Earth just needs a little space. But I’ve been giving her space for the past six thousand years, and she rarely looks up to say hey anymore.
It’s the life, I’m sure of it. She’s obsessed with it, especially those humans, and I worry about her.
Sometimes I watch her glide around the sun, one side glowing brightly, the other dark, punctuated with thousands of little human lights, blinking like stars. And Earth is turned inward, never looking above her clouds, consumed by the life that teems across her surface.
That’s when my atmosphere begins to feel thin and I shiver as my wind scrapes across my parched red wasteland.
And I watch as Earth’s blue and green spin silently away from me, lush and beautiful as she ever was, billions of life forms thriving beneath her outstretched clouds. And I wonder why she cares so much, my third planet from the sun.