Peace. Rest. That’s what all things are crying out for. They know this timeline is coming to an end. That it’s too twisted now, too complicated. That things can’t be straightened out. That we are creatures of the end, here to endure the end, and seek out the end.
But we’re part of the end, that’s the thing. We’re the fruit of the end. The most twisted and the most gnarled. Who long for death like a balm.
We were made for today. The end made us. We’ve gone off, in some sense. We have the foul stench of gone off things.
There’s a pressure in the air. A weight in the air. It knows. The very air knows. Just like the weather knows. Just like the stars know, looking down. Just like the darkness knows. Just like the earth knows. Just like everything knows. Just like we know.
Our time is coming. Which means our time is ending. Or rather, that it will cease ending.
The disgrace of our lives. The disgrace of our times. That’s what will be known.
Everything will be smoothed out. There will be no more wrinkles.
Is that what we are: wrinkles?
God is death.
Is that it? What’s so fucked up about us that we think that? What’s so very, very wrong with us?
God is death: that’s what I want to shout up to the heavens.
Work in Progress 