In case you haven’t noticed by now, the apocalypse has begun.
Our monoliths still stand in phallic mockery and the perceived order of things is still implied but take heed,
It’s Armageddon and wars are raging. Not physical wars but a war within oneself.
An unending battle over what is and what has been. Instability and fear dust every tongue, caressing you with kind words and false flicks of the promise of blue horizons and rolling, green hills.
All the while, idle hands set torches alight and burn every inch of the perfectly maintained golden wheat you’ve grown to nourish the world of your creation.
Tears reign here and once again take full control by extinguishing every flaming passion still smoldering. Whoever said the future was promised?
Because it’s the beginning of the end, the London Bridge is falling down, and Olympus has been reduced to ash.
The casualties of war are many and the remaining pieces of yourself recombine in one final attempt at a successful existence, just like the thousand times before and the thousand times remaining.
Who are you to have any control when daily life is a tired sitcom where you only play the role of an uncredited extra, not even collecting a measly stipend and seeing your name at the very end of the closing?
Because, who even reads the credits, anymore? Someone with a piqued interest, someone seeking additional distraction, or someone who knows there is a reason to see if they list your name.
At the edge of the Earth, during the end of the world, when the screen fades to black, very few take the time to read through what is thought of as insignificant to see if you were there, if you were relevant, if you ever truly existed at all.