"Requiem"

To whomever or whatever is out there:

I am a human and I am one of the last. It’s kinda funny, you know? I mean, not really, but I think it is in a sad kind of way. It has been a year since the event that will have ended human life here on Earth. In another year there may not be anyone left. No more anything, really. We all have to suffer. All the birds in the air, all the fish in the sea, all the deer in the forests. No more green. No more beauty. No birds singing or wind blowing.

Will anything start over? Will anyone there be to watch the sunrise or sunset? Or will it just go along without us? Sure it will rise and set long after we’re gone, but so what? If no one can see it, does it have majesty? Beauty? Questions, no answers. We’ve wasted its splendor. And now we only have a few more left. I don’t hate why it happened, but I hate what will no longer be. No one will be there to watch the sunrise.

Guess that’s what happens when you play with fire. But some people only care about themselves and their position in the world. Positions don’t matter anymore. In another year money, fame, power, or prowess won’t save you. Knowing the world ends in a few months sort of has the effect of producing anarchy. Why have laws if everything is going to hell anyway? I don’t mean to sound bleak but at this point I can’t help it. I wonder how the president feels, if he still feels he is the president. Should I blame him for all of this? It might make me feel better, but it’s pointless now, like a lot of things.

Next year I was to turn 25, but I know I’ll die at 24. It’s a strange feeling knowing what age you die at; people aren’t used to those kinds of deadlines. I almost feel like I’m looking into the future, but it’s not that hard to guess: death, and nothingness. I find it bittersweet being one of the last: there are seventy thousand of us in America, four hundred thousand or so in the rest of the world. But over half that number is already sick, like my friend. He is in the latest stages of the sickness, the point of greatest pain. He is 21 and his birthday is in three weeks, but we both know he’ll never live to see it. What do you say to an innocent dying man? He couldn’t even vote for the president and here he is, suffering that man’s choices. And as my friend lies there, I have to finds things to do as I wait for the same fate.

Some of the people can’t handle the inevitability. Suicide is the second leading cause of death right now, after the sickness. I try to find reasons to stay alive and keep my mind away from dancing towards the suicidal thoughts that creep up as I go to sleep at night. That’s when I’m most vulnerable. It’s that thing where when you’re trying not to think of something, you inevitably can’t get it off your mind. I’ve been volunteering at one of the hospitals here in the city, trying to ease the pain of the sick, like with my friend. But I can only help to postpone, not cure.

It’s strange to watch men die like this, seeing looks not of shock and fear, but of begrudging acceptance and numbness. Just like the president’s family. The Mayans predicted the apocalypse of man to occur in 2012, but I guess it’s ok if they’re a few years off. Now I don’t need predictions, I know exactly what year humanity ends. It’s hard to tell if time or the sickness is the greater enemy. One is the killer, and one drags on the killing. As I write this time passes, leading me closer to the sickness and my death. I try not to worry but it’s no use. The world worries along with me, even the president.

Hope is joke now, something to poke fun at with those that still believe it to be a word. No one’s come to save us. Hope no longer has any meaning in this world. Nor does it seem, my friend. I visited him today and he is in his final hours. There is no medicine capable of blocking such pain. It was several months before something was found that could let you pass in peace. Otherwise the pain was too great to put away with sedatives. You would fall asleep only to wake up in agony. I administered the drug to my friend, and told him to reserve a place for me, wherever he was going. He smiled before he closed his eyes.

As I write this now I can sense my time is coming. When I looked in the mirror this morning my face was different. My skin had begun to die, hardening and beginning to crust. I have trouble sleeping now, and my breath has a bad smell to it. It’s been a few months since my friend died, and the world is down to a couple thousand, and guess what? The president is among them. Maybe we’ll cross paths one of these days, though I hear he is finally sick too. The last few of us have moved to New York to spend the final days of humanity as one.

I used to look up at the stars at night, and often wondered if someone was looking back at me. The universe always seemed so full of hope and optimism, an endless frontier of mystery and discovery full of joy and wonder. Now when I look up I’m painfully aware of all those answers we’ll never have. Even though space had always made me feel so small and insignificant, I had always been comforted by the fact that we were here, alive. And as long as we were alive, we were a part of this beautiful thing. But not anymore. Now when I look up, I am reminded that our time is over, that we are no longer a part of this magic.

Many are too sick to get out of bed, but the president is not among them, nor am I. And during my stay in New York, my first visit to the city, I witnessed the loss of four thousand. One of them became my friend before he died. He was a man from east Europe, but spoke good English. We had many talks during the days in the hospital. I would run to get books he requested from the library and we would sit together, reading philosophy and discussing fate. And his came, on his 44th birthday.

Now as I write this, it is down to the president and I. Our paths have finally met, as the last two human souls on Earth. I tell him my life story and why I blame him for everything and everyone’s death. All eight billion of them, and mine. He looks at me and tells me his story. About why he made his decisions and what’s become of them. And when I tell him it’s all shit he tells me the same thing. But he turns to me and says we can’t go out fighting against each other. And he’s right. If I’m going to die and we’re all going to die then let’s die together. One last blaze of glory for humanity.

Right now the sun has nearly set, but it’s still on the horizon. The colors burn the sky as they bleed across the heavens. Will I be able to see it again in the morning? Will anyone? I guess that’s why I’m not afraid of dying. I know there will be no winter for us to feel. No snow, Christmas, or cold. All we have left is the sunset. And maybe the sunrise, but I doubt it. It’s a shame such beauty has to go to waste. But now the sun has set, and the colors have evaporated. The night brings darkness, those accursed stars, and the last summer days have come to a close. No one will see the sunrise tomorrow. Its golden flames will lick the sky and warm the land, but to an empty audience. Have we destroyed beauty?

The moon is out, and it is going to be the last thing I ever see.