For a million years,
we’ve watched the sky
and huddled in fear.
But somehow you still find yourself
quietly rooting for the storm.
As if a part of you is tired of waiting
wondering when the world will fall apart
by lot,
by fate,
by the will of the gods
almost daring them to grant your wish.
But really, you can wish all you want,
because life is a game of chance.
And each passing day is another flip of the coin.
Lachesism.
You can’t help but take this life for granted.
Your eyes adjust to the color of the walls
and your ears tune out the chatter
As if your body’s trying to filter out
the world as you know it.
And while your brain goes numb
trying to shake off your complacency,
your heart can’t sit still,
and your gut is hungry for chaos—
itching to chase after storms
and run headlong into the fire.
to watch society break down,
and find out what’s truly important
and watch everything else fall away.
The apocalypse is one of the oldest fantasies we have,
but it’s not about skipping to the end of the story.
it's a longing for revelation,
a revealing of what we already know,
but cannot see:
that none of this is guaranteed.
and there’s no such thing as “ordinary life.”
that our civilization is just an agreement
that could be revoked at any time.
and beneath our rules and quarrels
we’re stuck together on a wide open planet,
where anything can happen
leaving us no choice but to survive,
to build a shelter,
and find each other in the storm.
that even just getting through the day
should feel like the miracle it is,
a cascading series of accidents
that just happened to fall your way.
But soon the storm will pass,
and the world will go on spinning,
and we’ll pick up our lives just where we left them,
no more urgently than before.
After all,
it’s just life.
It’s not the end of the world.