What if our planet was visited long after we were gone?

In the first age, we created fire. We were transcended from the monotonous life of simple creatures to those who dared to think they had control over their environment.

This fire gave us time to think. We were able to question our world and surroundings, and we created gods. We carved their visages out of rock and bone, stone and wood; wood still existed then. We molded them from flaming metals and delicate clay. We built them houses of worship, temples to their greatness; all decorated with the most exotic goods. And this gave us comfort.

There were gods of many kinds. Men, women, young, old, mortal and not. Some were vengeful and harsh, drinking our blood and stealing our women, but in return we were given kind weather, good harvest, fertility, love, and access to their bounty. With their ever-watchful eyes our skies were darkened by flocks of birds, our seas brimmed with hoards of fish, and the land shook with millions of thundering hooves.

Our gods were adorned with crowns on their heads, or wings on their backs, the heads of animals, and the all Seeing Eye. We called them the One; we called them the Infinite and the Everlasting. We were not alone, we were not orphans.

In the second age, we created money. The money was made of precious stone and shining metals. One side was decorated with a severed head, that of a king or ruler, or some other important figure. The other was adorned with something comforting: a majestic bird, a fierce fur-bearing animal, or even a fish.

Our gods had died, and this was the only thing that reminded us of them, that reminded us of all that they had put forth for us. And as they died so to did their great works.

This money was small enough to hold, and everyone held some with him everyday. They held it as close to their body as possible, as if it had comforting warmth. This money could not be eaten or burned, it could not be worn or drank; but through some unknown magic it could be turned into these things. It could turn into what ever you desired.

This money was mystifying, and we thought we understood its power. With enough of it, it was rumored; you could fly up into the heavens and become a god yourself.

In the third age, money became our god. It was omnipotent, invincible, and uncontrollable. It began to talk and weave stories; it began to establish its own world.

Towers of glass and metal were erected in its name. It created great feasts, and horrible famines, songs of joy and pain. It created greed for some, and hunger for others. These were its two faces now, no longer a comfort, but a pain.

It started to eat things in order to feed its ever-growing hunger. It ate ancient forests and wetlands, croplands and fields, and the lives of children. It ate vast armies, great ships and magnificent cities. No one could stop it. Everything in its path was either absorbed or destroyed. To have it was a sign of grace. To have it was a necessity.

In the fourth age, we made deserts. These deserts took over the land, replacing the god’s work with ours. We had many types of deserts, but with one thing in common: they were dead zones where nothing could grow.

Some were made of concrete, some from poisons that we dumped, some of baked and dying earth. These deserts were created from our ever-increasing desire for money and from our gut wrenching despair from lacking it.

War, plague, famine and death, the four horsemen of the apocalypse visited us. Our apocalypse. Money’s apocalypse. None of these things stopped our zealous creation of desert.
Finally, all our wells were poisoned, all our rivers were dried up or filled with trash, all our oceans were devoid of life; there was no where clean left to grow food.

Some of our wise men and scientists turned to the deserts, as if they had answers. A stone in the sand in the setting sun could be very beautiful, they said. Deserts were tidy, because there were no weeds in them, nothing that crawled. Stay in the desert long enough, and you could apprehend the absolute. The number zero was holy.

You who have come here from some distant world, to this dried up riverbed and this pile of rubble, and to this capsule of copper, in which on the last day of all our recorded days we placed our final words:

Pray for us, who once thought we could fly with the gods. For mortals are never meant to get that close to heaven, and will just fall back to earth like the poor boy Icarus and his golden wings.