The world is ending. The world is ending.
They pay no heed to me. I am an abstract concept, they say. But I will send them their doom and will still be here long after they aren’t.
They know much about me. Many careers were built studying me, many households ran on the earnings from said careers. But they still do not quite grasp it. They know all the little details, but they do not see the bigger picture. They never have, and now they cannot, for their time is up.
The world is ending. Yet I see little people making little plans, oblivious to their fate:
A mother, daydreaming, fantasizing about her son’s upcoming wedding, hoping it will bring an oft aloof family closer. Dreaming her dreams of lavish ceremonies and the distant, gurgling laugh of future grandchildren.
A couple, struggling for three years through misery, tears and sacrifice to build a relationship that will stand the test of time. That endeavour may just be successful, for Time itself is not long for this world.
A rural settlement, situated at a location which was once dictated by economics and convenience, is now annually threatened by deluges. But they do not move, for they are significantly more averse to migration now than they were in their early years. They cry when their clutter is washed away. They gnash their teeth and beat their chests. But once the waters have died down, they start collecting their little fragments and putting them together again. They know not that every brick they lay serves only to strike all the harder at the next house when the time comes.
Sometimes, they raise a great hue and cry at some events, naming them disasters and pulling together momentarily to control the extent of its damage. But at other times, when the ones affected are far away or not so high-born, they turn a blind eye and continue to live their lives.
The noble ones sit around tables, sheltered away from the world, making plans that span centuries.
“We shall save the world,” they say, but they mean to save only themselves.
The greedy ones care not, and frolick with abandon. One could ascribe wisdom to their behaviour, but there is no depth to their activity. They are compelled by nature and a lack of cognition to behave that way, and so blundering, just happened upon the optimal path.
“The world could end at any time,” say the experts, and list out all the different ways they could die in a neat little well-edited YouTube video. And the masses gasp and shake their heads and then make their way to the kitchen to cook their next meal.
The world is ending, and yet order is what everyone seeks. Whole millenia of “progress” has strived towards this goal. Establishing stability, predictability, and, above all, control. However, the entire structure is contructed on the frailest and ficklest base. One flinch, and all is lost.
Save money.
Make the world a better place for your children.
Do not litter.
Protect the environment.
All these little manifestations of denial infest their kind, and any who do not heed these dictums are dismissed as immature.
“Cynicism gets you nowhere,” say the civilization, sitting atop a teetering tower.
“If you aren’t helping fix the problem, then you are a part of it,” moralizes one krill to the other, as the both of them and everyone around them gets swallowed up by a blue whale.
“Plan ahead and you shall be successful,” says the bishop to the rook, while the chessboard itself prepares to crumble.
“Pandas are no longer endangered,” says a man, pride in his eyes, as he rests in his house built on fault-lines that could submerge entire countries with one little slip.
The world is ending, and yet they wish to meet their end, squabbling about gender pronouns and pay-to-win mobile games.
I could end them with a prolonged siege, sending forth my liquid host, piecemeal. But I, unlike them, have a sense of style. The end of a being, no matter how insignificant, should be a cataclysmic event, not a gradual fading.
No, theirs shall be an end by earth, wind, ice and fire. The hordes shall not die meaninglessly, like nameless soldiers vaporized in an accidental blast, but shall enjoy the honor of variegated inflictions.
They, who did nothing of any value in all their lives, will achieve sublimity in their annihilation.
They pay no heed to me. I am an abstract concept, they say. But I will send them their doom and will still be here long after they aren’t.
They know much about me. Many careers were built studying me, many households ran on the earnings from said careers. But they still do not quite grasp it. They know all the little details, but they do not see the bigger picture. They never have, and now they cannot, for their time is up.
The world is ending. Yet I see little people making little plans, oblivious to their fate:
A mother, daydreaming, fantasizing about her son’s upcoming wedding, hoping it will bring an oft aloof family closer. Dreaming her dreams of lavish ceremonies and the distant, gurgling laugh of future grandchildren.
A couple, struggling for three years through misery, tears and sacrifice to build a relationship that will stand the test of time. That endeavour may just be successful, for Time itself is not long for this world.
A rural settlement, situated at a location which was once dictated by economics and convenience, is now annually threatened by deluges. But they do not move, for they are significantly more averse to migration now than they were in their early years. They cry when their clutter is washed away. They gnash their teeth and beat their chests. But once the waters have died down, they start collecting their little fragments and putting them together again. They know not that every brick they lay serves only to strike all the harder at the next house when the time comes.
Sometimes, they raise a great hue and cry at some events, naming them disasters and pulling together momentarily to control the extent of its damage. But at other times, when the ones affected are far away or not so high-born, they turn a blind eye and continue to live their lives.
The noble ones sit around tables, sheltered away from the world, making plans that span centuries.
“We shall save the world,” they say, but they mean to save only themselves.
The greedy ones care not, and frolick with abandon. One could ascribe wisdom to their behaviour, but there is no depth to their activity. They are compelled by nature and a lack of cognition to behave that way, and so blundering, just happened upon the optimal path.
“The world could end at any time,” say the experts, and list out all the different ways they could die in a neat little well-edited YouTube video. And the masses gasp and shake their heads and then make their way to the kitchen to cook their next meal.
The world is ending, and yet order is what everyone seeks. Whole millenia of “progress” has strived towards this goal. Establishing stability, predictability, and, above all, control. However, the entire structure is contructed on the frailest and ficklest base. One flinch, and all is lost.
Save money.
Make the world a better place for your children.
Do not litter.
Protect the environment.
All these little manifestations of denial infest their kind, and any who do not heed these dictums are dismissed as immature.
“Cynicism gets you nowhere,” say the civilization, sitting atop a teetering tower.
“If you aren’t helping fix the problem, then you are a part of it,” moralizes one krill to the other, as the both of them and everyone around them gets swallowed up by a blue whale.
“Plan ahead and you shall be successful,” says the bishop to the rook, while the chessboard itself prepares to crumble.
“Pandas are no longer endangered,” says a man, pride in his eyes, as he rests in his house built on fault-lines that could submerge entire countries with one little slip.
The world is ending, and yet they wish to meet their end, squabbling about gender pronouns and pay-to-win mobile games.
I could end them with a prolonged siege, sending forth my liquid host, piecemeal. But I, unlike them, have a sense of style. The end of a being, no matter how insignificant, should be a cataclysmic event, not a gradual fading.
No, theirs shall be an end by earth, wind, ice and fire. The hordes shall not die meaninglessly, like nameless soldiers vaporized in an accidental blast, but shall enjoy the honor of variegated inflictions.
They, who did nothing of any value in all their lives, will achieve sublimity in their annihilation.
