by Nic Olson
The sun exploded yesterday and I only felt it today. By tomorrow we could all be dead. Finally a scientific reason behind 7°C temperatures in the February ‘winter paradise’ of Quebec. Finally a scientific reason behind me fearing everything that moves and thinking about home and migrating. My animal instinct is dominating all parts of my mind because my instincts knew the world was ending before the papers did. Before NASA did.
I know I talk about the apocalypse almost as much as a schizophrenic homeless man or an empowered southern super evangelist who sells prayer handkerchiefs for a guaranteed entrance to heaven, but when the BBC reports that the sun explodes, I listen especially close.
Now all the religious zealots are right; that the hurricanes and the world currency and world language and gay marriage and volcanoes and stock market crashes and crop failures and floods are proof of the apocalypse. Now we cannot deny the second coming. Just have to dive back into the religious texts to see if it prophesied the sun exploding and raining fire or if it was lightning bolts or diseased house cats.
We had begun to wonder what had happened to the animals, why they are coming to the cities with the millions of poor people. Why the birds sang in December and the deer ate from your apple trees. It is not because there is less room in the mountains and fields, because all the mountaineers and farmers are moving to the city to find new riches, so there should be more room for the wild animals. But it is that the sun told them, years before, what would happen in February 2011.
But alas, there is a difference between exploding and erupting. It turns out that tomorrow won’t see the end of our species, although that would likely have been for the best. We now find out that it is just a day of unseasonal warmth and that the apocalypse isn’t tomorrow but has been a constant gradual process since humans existed on earth. That at least should help us sleep at night.
It must be evident by now how badly I want to see the end of the world, just to prove to myself that we are essentially here to question and wonder and little else. How badly I want to see what might happen, if it will be raining fire or lightning or diseased house cats that do us in. How badly I wouldn’t mind being proven wrong, but how either way it wouldn’t matter.
The apocalypse isn’t nigh. The apocalypse isn’t inevitable. The apocalypse is as fake as the rest of it.
I can’t wait to sunbathe.