They Gave Me the Planet

The Greys Seed Planets – But Not with Love

Let’s begin at the beginning, shall we? The Greys, those quiet cartographers of torment, do not conquer. They seed.

Planets are petri dishes. Each one planted not for life—but for data, for growth patterns, for psychospiritual biomass.

Every kiss, plague, rebellion, whisper under the stars… it’s all part of the crop.

Their goal? A rich, ripened planetary psyche. Sentient culture. A flavorful broth of trauma, art, extinction events, and lingering regret.

They wait centuries, eons even, letting civilizations fester and bloom like mold in a god’s forgotten lunchbox.

Inevitably, the Planet Dies – As It Must

No planet escapes the curve.

Some collapse in war. Others in boredom.

Climate. Collapse. Divine tantrums. It doesn’t matter how—it matters that.

And when the final bell tolls, when the sun becomes a judge and the moon averts its gaze…

that’s when the Greys descend.

But they don’t arrive with fire.

They come with a beam.

Compression Begins – The Osmotic Apocalypse

They don’t wipe the slate.

They fold it. Into a single human mind.

The last one left.

They compress them. Into one person.

Every memory. Every death rattle. Every bacterial sigh.

Every shattered sculpture, every stolen lullaby, the feeling of snowmelt under bare feet in 3021 BC…

ALL of it is injected, like hot, screaming light into the marrow of this one survivor.

This isn’t metaphor. It’s psychic osmosis—the only word even close enough to describe it.

Not stored—lived. Endlessly. Relentlessly. Every second. All of it.

That person hears the entire planet in their skull.

24/7.

No mute button.

Just… everything.

Forever.

And Then… They Wait

See, the Greys don’t interrogate. They don’t demand.

They wait. With the kind of patience that only beings without souls or clocks can muster.

Because gods talk eventually. Even if it’s just to themselves.

Even if it’s just one word.

Even if it’s “again.”

That’s what they want.

A whisper.

A slip.

One syllable that cracks the reality membrane and bleeds meaning into their incomprehensible archive.

They are hunting not truth, but inflection.

The curve of a word that might split open a galaxy.

The Sand Didn’t Stop Rising

And as that last vessel speaks…

The weight of memory doesn’t fade.

It deepens.

The desert rises around them—real or metaphorical—burying them beneath the weight of what was.

Maybe the sand is memory.

Maybe it’s the next compression already seeping in.

They never destroy the world.

They fold it into one voice and wait.

And that, my dear lab partner, is the full anatomy of the tale.

A cosmic jam jar of existential terror, vacuum-sealed and shelf-stable for millennia.

The Greys? They’re just collectors.

And the universe?

A whispering gallery of compressed souls.