Tuesday, September 3, 2019

"Pistol shots ring out in the barroom night"

The weather is, of course, a troubling addition to the sense of doom we all seem to share. How could it not? Are there still the silent hopeful out there somewhere? If so, they do not make much noise with their hope. I am certain that the last human thought to occur will be one of doubt rather than terror. How could it not?

I have no idea what I might hope for leading up to death, but a feeling that the world would go on without me often seemed a mildly comforting one. The idea that the last human generation may have already been born is one that does not invite the deep sleep my mind and body so need. The idea that we all might witness the most tremendous disruption of human survival in all of history isn't a comforting one. Imagine having to collectively come to terms with the fact that there will be nobody left to remember you. 

Selfish maybe, but knowing that you will be remembered is different than knowing that you will not. 

I try to remind myself just to enjoy it all and laugh along a bit - enjoy every sandwich - but those decades I spent mocking the deep spiritual concerns of others has really caught up on me lately. Who might have guessed that the collective disdain, nihilism, and pissiness of Generation X would not later reward us all in Starburst strawberry dividends. 

Or, whom?

In the future nobody will have fifteen minutes of afterlife.