The science says that the Earth formed out of accreting dust from the sun’s protoplanetary disc. The truth is that our planet is the hardened shell of Hnturi-N’gburo, hibernating comfortably within. That molten iron core we’re so sure of? The iron blood of N’gburo, to whom we are as fleas. We perform a symbiotic duty, scrubbing clean the forests that grow like moss on its back, picking and prying away the scabs of its cooled iron-blood from beneath its shell.
I know because I’m a janitor in the broadest, deepest building in the world, and I clean the sub-sub-sub-sub-basements every day. That close to N’gburo, it talks to me, mumbles like a half-awake genius shedding accidental brilliance while dozing on the train. One day, perhaps soon, Hnturi-N’gburo will wake. Like a bear emerging from its cave, N’gburo will shed its shell and swim through space to what we cannot know. Mating? War? A philosophical debate? Though we will all die screaming into the unhearing void of space N’gburo casts us into, I long to see that day before I die. I want to see its majesty.
Yeah, so that’s why we don’t need to worry about conservation or climate change.