Header photo by Paul Gillett under Creative Commons 2.0.
Last night, I dreamt the end had finally arrived. Something crashing into the planet, I believe. It was years after now; I lived in a tiny island with sea visible in all directions. The waves had been getting rough in the last few years…I don’t know where it was, but I know it was still in the northern hemisphere. I’d already settled in and gotten acquainted; it isn’t hard to get to know an island with a population so small you can count them with your fingers. It was definitely a downsize from the last island I’d lived on.
It was finally the end, and the dull grey waves were intensifying below an overcast sky. It was happening over the course of about a week, but we didn’t care. We continued to live life on the island as normal, as anyone in such a small community would. We idly talked about the unfinished building by the giant shipwreck off the coast, talked about the violent wind and rain outside…I’m not sure if construction on the building began before or after the shipwreck.
But it was still an eventful time, so I made my way back to my previous home on the older island. The house there was warmer and I knew the people there better; it housed a family, so of course it would be warmer. They appeared to be more concerned about the destruction of all, which wasn’t saying much as it still only appeared as a passing sentence in a conversation. The storms had followed me here, so I left for home.
Before I woke up, the end never arrived. The only end to my imaginary world is at the end of this sentence.