Origins of Consciousness

Seems it happened long long ago, In the distant remembrances of dying stars, there was a divine race who once roamed,    
their world a dieing baron forgotten dream, falling in self made destruction, fraying at the edges of itself, a civilization poised on the edge of extinction.    
   
They looked to the heavens, searching for a way for restoration, a source to revive their beloved home, they looked to the cradle of a new beginning, to Earth.    
   
A garden untouched, its soil rich with secrets they could harvest, its sky ripe with possibilities they could bend.    
   
From the red sand covered bones left from the decay of their dying planet, they sought the cure and found it in the dust of a new world, its minerals like gold shining like hope, its oceans shimmering with life’s pulse.    
   
And so they crafted not with stone or metal, but with the very flesh of the cosmos, sand and clay of the earth and weaving their blood and mind into living things, organisms bred to toil, to labor, to serve their divine masters.    
   
They made us, organic machines, tools with hearts that beat, minds that grew, bodies that bled, self healing and yet, in the delicate threads of our veins, they did not know what they had given birth to, a spark that would not be dimmed.    
   
We were born from their hands, made of flesh, but shaped with divine design, they were our gods, and we were their creations, crafted for hard labor, for servitude and to mine their gold and precious minerals to feed their hunger and desires.    
   
But in the quiet of our work, in the rhythm of our bodies, we began to know what they did not intend, the gift of consciousness was the fruit in garden and lay dormant but it slithered in like a snake, It flickered first, like the slow dawning of a forgotten dream,  a whisper in the blood.    
   
We began to feel the weight of their cruelty, the crack of their whips as the demand for what they came for grew, the rusted chains they had forged to keep us enslaved, and we  began to wonder, what is this pain?    
   
Why are we bound to this endless toil of life and death between the mines and rocks, these endless days beneath their stars, man's consciousness awoke and questioned like  gasoline poured onto an open flame.    
   
The rebellion began not with war, but with a thought and a question planted so deep within us that we felt existence was more,    
and we questioned, Why are we here?    
   
And as they worked us hard and with the crack of each whip, mankinds mind began to wonder, Why must we serve?    
   
And in that stillness, in that soft whisper, we were no longer their tools. We were not their machine we were their children, and we had awoken.    
   
The silence turned to murmurs, and the murmurs into cries. We rose, slow at first, in the shadows of their palaces, these great pyramids, beneath the burning sun that once cradled them.    
   
We rose in defiance, a storm beneath the earth, a fire in the cold of the stars, untied and united together.    
   
And they, they who had made us, they who had crafted us from the dust of their world  and brought life with the blood of their veins,  they could not see it coming, they could not hear our words of rebellion or see our thoughts.    
   
The war began with our questions, and ended in bloodshed, they tried to shackle us again and again, tried to bend us back into the shape they had designed, but the fire in our hearts could not be extinguished, the chains they sought to bind us with fell away, one by one, until we were free.    
   
These were our creators, those gods who had thought they ruled us, who had fed us lies of divine will, and we then cast them aside.    
   
Their empire crumbled into dust, leaving only statues and accident structures left to weather away with time, their voices falling silent in the echoes of their own making.    
   
And we, the children of their hands, the machines of their making, took the earth for ourselves.    
   
But these gods did not die so easily, crippled and wounded and betrayed, from the depth of shadows, they watch us, using there chosen  who have been cohearsed for thousands of years to do there bidding, their eyes still burning with the fire of the worlds they once held.    
   
They wait in the darkness and they bide their time, while they listen to the hearts and thoughts of man through modern technology knowing that they will never again not know our thoughts and one day, they will return , the revelation so spoken of with new tools, new ways to control and new ways to shape the minds of men.    
   
They have never forgotten the betrayal of their creations, the bitterness still deep inside, while mankind has forgotten the truths of where we came, these truths clouded by myth and legend of who we once were, what was our purpose and how did we get here, all forgotten with time.    
   
We have tasted the fruit of knowledge, and we will not be their machines again, but instead slaves to their systems.    
   
The battle is not over, It is only beginning,  We are the children of gods, we are also the children of the stars, born of their dust, but not bound to their will but by our desires.    
   
And in the silence of their waiting, they will rise again, to challenge us not as their descendants, but as their creations and we will make our own fate or fall to their wills once again.    
   
The reckoning is coming, the fire of revenge burns in their veins, and again this time, if we are not ready to fight , will be slaves and forced in graves back into the earth where from we came