As snow softens beneath the glowing horizon, as flowers blossomed anew, born beneath tender dews and warmth was a girl pure as first dawn. There was nothing magical nor noteworthy about the moment unlike fairytales weaved for young ears. It was simply unassuming, yet gravitational. Born of tiny bursts of starlight from billions of souls across the globe, the birth of her existence halted time, as if the universe itself held a breath to behold her beauty. 

Without purpose nor direction, she wandered the world in childlike awe of its wonders. Unrealising that in her gentle footsteps, history followed. Across centuries, she shifted and moulded into different forms and ideology. She was the hope that humans clung to in moments where emotions overflowed like rising tides, and to the lost souls, she was their guiding light, anchor and salvation.

Through the passage of time, she gained a name. Art. A title whispered in reverence by the winds themselves. An embodiment of the words bled on paper, colours splattered across canvases, motions of the body beyond comprehension, to words strung in honey and dipped in poison. A being so ethereal, all desired to grasp her in hand. 

Her presence echoed throughout life. Everywhere yet nowhere all at once. From the unsuspecting clouds meandering over skies, the shy greeting of rainbows after storms, the flower that blooms after winters, beautiful despite all adversities.

And yet despite everything, like a typical fairytale, with time came decay. An inevitable turning of the wheels of fate. The people’s reverence began to shift. A slight wavering in the foundation of her being, a mere flicker enough to crumble. An ever slow crawl towards inevitable descent. 

Unnoticeable at first glance, till signs surfaced in the form of slight downturn of ever smiling lips. Buried within the flutter of furrow between brows, the hesitation built unconsciously in her bones, the flinches of every touch.

Humans were greedy, she learnt. The seven sins wrapped in flesh and packaged with skin. A prize of deities. Her creator, as well as her downfall. The humans’ love and respect for her was as great as the greed in their veins. Even she, a creature born through the wonder of language, movement, the purest form of the soul, was not immune.

Greed bore desire, to conquer and to keep her to oneself. But she was never born to be trapped, caged and shackled. Yet into their trap she fell. Her kindness wielded like blades onto herself.

In the name of science and madness, they craved knowledge. So they dug and carved into her soul with a twisted sense of purpose. Unfalthering as her screams echoed through galaxies. Splintering starlight, fracturing trust. Ripping out her soul, gleeful smirks and wonder on their faces.

The ringing in her ears robbed her of all senses. Loud and jarring, masking the shattering of her glass heart. The pieces laid by her feet, stained beautifully crimson. Everything hurts, aches, burns. Her breath caught in her throat, dry and suffocating. Lungs expanding in a helpless attempt to seek air, puffs of white staining blood red lips. There she lied, a gaping cavern where a beating heart once laid. Where a soul once sang. A grave born of her creator.

It was out of love they chanted, as they replicated her soul a thousand times over. Again and again and again. Till she no longer recognised her true self. Billions of starlight splintered till her own faded to mere flickers. All for the sake of satisfying their sick cravings, robbing joy and originality from those who found comfort in creating, destroying their shelter in a world far too cruel. 

Clones, clones, clones… She was surrounded by mirages of her own reflections desiring to be her. Every corner and crevice filled with a different version of herself she no longer recognised. Each one labelled with ‘AI’ in blaring red ink. 

Why can’t they all die? Please just disappear.

Maybe she wasn’t the true one. Was she the clone? Her worn hands desperately clawed at the ugly jagged letters carved into her flesh like a brand. AI.

An unwanted thought floated in, a blot of dark ink amongst clear oceans. What if she simply killed them all? 

She should be the only one standing. She was the special one, wasn’t she? They said it was love. She would just be proving her love back.

In spite of the agony scorching her veins, she stood. Albeit shaky like a new born fawn, she refused to cower like prey. Lest they forget she existed not solely in beauty but destruction and chaos. Her mind thrusted into the hell of human creation, lost all sense of reality. Light smothered by the hands she revered. So she burned, lit herself on fire.

In her craze, she razed the grounds. Her rage and pain, a burning inferno that crashed over those that dare stand in her path. Until she was surrounded by barren lands, her flames did not halt, did not waver. Burned brighter and brighter, the humans a spark towards destruction.

And yet, through the haze of emotions, she could still hear them. The tiny voices that whisper of love, of the joy and comfort and home people had found in her arms. The light that sparked her creation still burned bright in the ones who had continued to love her.

That very same love held her over, cleared her mind of the time she spent shackled like a quivering lab mouse. So to the very same whispers that helped haphazardly patch the holes in her soul out of sheer desperation, she reached back out for the very last time. Tired, she was so tired. Her hands, timid and unsure, brushed over thousands and millions of others.

In the hands of the very same human beings that ripped her apart, held pieces of starlight once her own. This time not to break but to build. A promise forgotten through time, but was always there, etched in the stars across galaxies.

Her body aches, foreign. The pieces meld back together but don’t fit like they once did. Like worn fabric forcefully patched, torn scrapes held together by mere thread so no holes are obvious. Stretched and tightened in all the wrong places, but that’s okay. She’s alright just the way she is.

How does one love again with a broken heart? How can a cracked vessel, a shattered soul ever hold love without it seeping through the cracks? 

Always from then on she remained wary, but with every hand that reached out, not to harm but to warm, the icy exterior melted. Drip, drip, drip. Drop by drop as she relearns to open back up like a flower that once bloomed shyly in greeting.

There’s still a long way before that trust can be re-established, but she worries not. After all, she has an eternity ahead as did the humans who will continue to grow, learn, persevere and love. 

Written by Jia Wei

Designed by Yashven