No-one will believe you. You’ll be semi-prepared for dismissals, mockings. You’ll wish you didn’t know what you know, see what you see, but the only perspective you can trust is yours. Everyone else is swaying.
You’ll reason but people are the TV on standby, exhausting energy but essentially useless, an untapped entity, eating the resources that could keep you alive for months.
They say the world is darker now and when you read the books in the Bible that detail the end times you imagined more burning, a lack of trust, the running out of face cream. Not all predictions are true. The papers were right about Titanic, The Artist, The Lord of the Rings sweeping the board, but how the hours play out when the movie making stops is a guess for someone else, a fortune teller in training, the last left, who we can default to. A star being made.
You’ll try not to picture the going. You’ll pace fields and streets and floorboards like life is still 2004, 2006. You’ll be asked to peel vegetables. You’ll treat every woman like your daughter, as if imitation is a reincarnation, prolonging. But we’re talking days, hours, and how long they last without you is trivial.
You didn’t pick a side, didn’t have to. People prefer not to know at the end of it. I still don’t know how Lost ends.