The world has just blown up from internal pressure. One volcano deep in the Atlantic was ready to blow. A surprise volcano in the Indian Ocean would have shocked the relevant experts if they were still alive to discuss it. Two opposing super volcano's multiplying each other's force to doom the planet. “The End of the World!” the tabloids would scream, not to panic the public, just to inform. Well, they would do this if printing presses still existed, and journalists and THE WORLD.
“This is shit” I hear Daly mutter into his cup of tea. “Like, if the world has blown up and all the stuff is dead, how can this story exist? Huh, whatever!”
Well, this story exists in my head and I survived. I am the lone survivor floating through space and through time also. Because, time is a ribbon each of us follow. Some ribbons are longer than others, different colours too. Some people follow their ribbons with more haste than others. For unfortunate people, their ribbons snap before their natural end. Right now, I am purposively ignoring my ribbon altogether. Just to survive long enough to say what happened and then stop living. After I die my body won’t rot because space is a vacuum and without air there is no bacteria to decompose my body. It will just float along the galaxy, away from the sun, I hope, past Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune, the Kuiper Belt and Pluto and maybe Planet X if it exists. Out of our galaxy, into uncharted space.
Maybe I might bump into some groovy aliens who like to smoke space weed and listen to space psyche funk. Or maybe some space-bots might pick my up frozen body. They could put my brain into a groovy sex bot and I could live forever exploring the seedy depths of adult robot space entertainment. The future is mine.
It’s a pity I can’t remember how I survived. I think the shock of experiencing my home being destroyed knocked that info right out of my head, along with some other details. Like, who am I?
Maybe, I was a ten year old on a swing, swinging as high as I could go. Kicking my legs, squeezing my eyes shut, getting as high as I dare, ready to jump when I felt I was scraping the sky. And maybe at the apex of my swing, when I soared off, the explosive reaction that would result in the end of the world sent my young body spiralling into space.
Or maybe, I was an astronaut, doing important work fixing a space station or a telescope. Space walking, witnessing the break down of existence from the greatest viewpoint one could wish for, if one were to wish for such a thing.
Or maybe, more probably, I am dead already. And this is my brain shutting down. Last flow of blood setting off images and sounds, trying to explain what just happened as reasonably as possible. Perhaps, I was on earth when it happened, in a kitchen somewhere in Europe washing a dish. I am remembering the second between realisation of death and death itself.
Or perhaps life isn’t black on white, or white on black, and I am in a seedy motel in New Orleans, flicking through a Gideon’s Bible imagining death because it is better than life. I could be waiting for my dealer to arrive to deal me a dose of death. An injection a day keeps life at bay. Or maybe I am in a vineyard in France, taking a mid-afternoon break to sip wine in the shade. Dreaming of my future wife, dark hair and dark skin, nursing our first born who was a miracle.
Occam’s razor states that the simplest of two or more competing theories is preferable. In other words, I am not floating through space and time digesting the last crumbs of my life, or in New Orleans waiting for a junkies demise or in France dreaming of my prospective wife. I am in Ireland, writing fitfully into Microsoft Word, happy to be alive.