Why I wouldn’t like to survive the end of the world

I’m sure that I’m not the only person on earth thinking about the great death of the earth every once in a while. Probably not even in this exact moment. More than likely, every one of you, whoever is actually reading those lines, has a certain scenario in their heads about how exactly this party is going to end. I’m guessing  you’re picturing it all painted red and black with a lot of smoke and stuff. At least that’s what is in my head right now.

apocalypse-41

Anyway, as we all think about ourselves as this significant human being that’s going to change the world at some point for sure, most of us like to think about ourselves as the survivors of the apocalypse, the Adams and Eves of the new world, the preservers of the human heritage. Well, at least I hope that most of the people do actually think like this. Otherwise by now you know a lot more about my psychological issues than I would like you to.

Let’s say I’m right and have a look at time and the significance of the life of one human being within it. Let’s even compare it with the significance of the dump a rat took somewhere in a field in France in 1756 to my life right now. And now let’s assume that it’s even 3975330984 x 10^234 times less significant. That is not much. (If you’d like a more graphic description (yes? oh really? more graphic than that?) or you’re so afraid of and/or disgusted by rats that you’re standing on a table screaming right now, just have a look at this website: http://hereistoday.com/)

Honestly, I still hope that you’re taking me seriously, but I’m starting to doubt it.

But why did I bring up the significance of one human being for the turning of the world? Or time in general? And even a rat?

As I was sitting in the sun today, changing from solid to fluid, I had not much more to do than thinking about my very own significance in this very world and time, about this moment that they call life, and about the time it will end. I also thought about history and how blessed I am to live now and to know how everything with the world and humanity and stuff turned out so far. It’s actually a great story! But every great story deserves a great end, doesn’t it? And then it occurred to me: damn it. I’m not going to find out how this story ends. And why. And when. Only if the world will come to an end with me. And this is why it would be incredibly annoying to survive the apocalypse.

You know, by then I will have made it so far: I will have given everything to survive right till the very, very end of the world. To the last moment. The last breath of the earth, blink of the sun, dump of a rat, kiss of the rain, whistle of the wind. I’d know how the book ends. I have the perfect story from beginning to end. I can die with a satisfaction that not many people will share. And THEN I’ll find a rescue, chicken out from death and wake-f*cking-up the next morning. I missed it. I missed the chance to die happy. I had the perfect finale of life and i screwed. it. up. What do I get from that? I wonder how everything’s going to change after I died, how humanity will manage their chance this time. And I’ll never know. What a sucky end. No one would read this book.

So please, life, if you’re reading this: be a dear and let the apocalypse come when I’m eighty and done. And then take me with you. I’ll write a book about it in the afterlife and it’s gonna be a hit. Promise.

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