We Are Living in a Dystopian Novel

We are living in a dystopian novel.

Ash decorates our shirts like a faux fur coat.

Every breath we take shudders from the small particles that threatens to tear our lungs apart.

And the smoke continues to rise.

Red, orange flames decorate the horizon.

Our mouths taste of fear. They are dry. The fire has sucked the oxygen and the water from our earth.

California, ravaged by wildfires, can hardly escape this novel on her own.

She is not the cause of the fire.

We are.

Despite warnings of global warming, despite warnings of risky actions…
we are still falling.

The flames dance across my mind’s eye when I fall to sleep. They taunt me when I blink. They sing of destruction when I cry.

An omen, perhaps, of the future.

A future of darkness and gloom. The sun blotted out by grey clouds of ashes and dust.

This fire is just one of the millions of warnings this earth has given us.

California, oh! her rolling ocean blued waves to her sweet-smelling close-cropped grasses to the dried ridges of sandy deserts, the fire threatens the future of your and our every existence.

We are living in a dystopian novel, where the skies are tinged red and gray, ash is our new trend, and the fiery red sun rises from the east and sets in the west.

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