The
End of the World
It began so far away, so long ago, we don’t know where it began. The first report was of what appeared to be new stars. Then it was seen in action, the novas, the explosions. It looked, through a telescope, as if an entire solar system’s dead space was infused with methane and ignited. It was so small in the night sky, then the fire was noiselessly swallowed as there was nothing to feed it. Then again, another spot, another planet, star, solar system. Our scientists only said it looked as though there were some sort of disturbance on the far end of the universe as we know it.
The first explosion happened so long ago. It happened before humanity, before Pangæa, before the first enzymes became a protein. Millions of light years away, it happened millions of years ago. We’ve never known or seen those stars; they were never there for us, only ghosts. They were no more real than a recording or a photograph, the voice or image of something long since past.
It was getting closer. The next explosion was nearer and clearer. From two points a line could be extrapolated; it passed through us. The third and fourth a few days later, light years apart, covering an unbelievable distance, gaining velocity. How many more galaxies have been dead all this time? Shining down upon us with remembered light, sleeping beneath a haunted sky. Soon, we too will be someone else’s ghosts. Should our own sun explode, we won’t know for eight minutes; long enough to listen to “Rhapsody in Blue.”
The explosions draw near, solar systems and galaxies light up and wilt like midsummer fireworks. Whatever the cause, some harbinger of doom, some chemical interaction, the purging fire of God, we are to be its casualty even if we are not its object.
The pace still accelerates. The grand finale will come so quickly there will be no moment for enjoyment or appreciation.
How shall we occupy ourselves until then?