This one’s an older poem titled “Gaze.”
you know what I want? a post-apocalypse farm game.
you’re a wanderer who happens upon a farm. it’s overgrown and decayed, looks like it’s been abandoned for some time. but as you investigate you meet the old man who lives there. he’s been living on this farm for years but as his health has decayed he’s been increasingly unable to take care of it. he sees you are interested and asks if you would like to take it over. you, of course, say yes.
the old man gives you the tutorials, shows you around, introduces you to the traveling trader who sometimes comes by. not long after you have settled in he passes away, at peace now that he knows his beloved farm is being looked after.
you do your normal farm game things: clean up the land bit by bit, grow some crops from the last of the old man’s seeds, repair the buildings. you scavenge the land around for old world artifacts that can be broken down for supplies and resources to upgrade your farm. the trader comes by, and as you trade with him more and more, he spreads word and other traders come too, offering greater variety.
other people come too, slowly, attracted by news of your farm or just passing by. they bring valuable skills, but they have requirements to meet if you want them to stay. slowly the nearby town, long since deserted, fills up again. you help the new residents clean it up, repair the abandoned homes, plant flowers along the cracked old streets.
there’s no fighting, no violence save maybe a bit of subsistence hunting. just a quiet game about life and community regrowing from the ashes.
A comforting thought
Five thousand years ago, the Sumerians called the night ngi, the stars mul, and the moon Nanna.
Four thousand years ago, the Akkadians called the night mūšu, the stars kakkabū, and the moon Sîn.
Three thousand years ago, the Hittites called the night išpanza, the stars haštereš, and the moon Arma.
Two and a half thousand years ago, the Greeks called the night nux, the stars astra, and the moon Selênê.
Two thousand years ago, the Romans called the night nox, the stars stellae, and the moon Luna.
Kings and queens and heroes looked up at them. So did travelers coming home, and little children who sneaked out of bed. So did slaves, and mothers and soldiers and old shepherds, and Sappho and Muršili and Enheduanna and Socrates and Hatshepsut and Cyrus and Cicero. In this darkness it didn’t matter who they were, or where they stood. Only that they were human.
Think of that tonight, when you close your window. You are not alone. You share this night sky with centuries of dreamers and stargazers, and people who longed for quiet. Are you anxious? The Hittites were too: they called it pittuliyaš. Does your heart ache? The Greeks felt it too: they called it akhos. Those who look up to the stars for comfort are a family, and you belong to them. Your ancestors have stood under Nanna, Sîn, Arma, Selênê and Luna for five thousand years. Now its light is yours.
May it soothe you well.
me: wants to be multilingual, a musical prodigy, an artist, an author, a poet, an honour student, working in a well-paying job, successful and happy
me: sits on my couch eating three(3) party-sized bags of salt and vinegar potato chips and watching thirty-one(31) episodes of my favourite tv show in one sitting