The descendants of my people call their home Earth.

That's what they've been calling it for the last one thousand three hundred and twelve years. The origin of this name, in some languages, means ground. It seems there was no advancement in creativity since I've last met with my kind.

I do not pity them, I admire them. Their stubbornness and ability to maintain such a dismissive mind to the world around them is something I hope to achieve one day. For now, being the true last of my kind, I am burdened with the task of either allowing what's become of my species to destroy itself or flourish.

There stands a possibility that I may be too late.

I cannot see myself in them any longer. Their minds and physical forms were sent to live in boxes that only get smaller and smaller.

They have the world at their hands and ability to create change in a matter of seconds, yet they don't fully grasp the concept of what that truly means.

They've blocked their physical forms from their mind and spirit. They refuse to listen to what it says, because the reality they've created for themselves is in complete disarray. It's become so much of an issue, that it destroys even their planet, much like it did before.

I suppose they've learned from the error of my ways. Some have the ability to hide from the planets' cleanse, seeking shelter underground or in the stars. They're more adaptive, but I worry that their morale's and motives are in acts of selfishness. 

I fear for those that are to remain behind- not by choice, but by their inability to break free from their boxes. Boxes they had no choice in the matter of being in, at that.

I need to figure out what's put them there. What's stopped so much of humanity dead in its tracks?