I’m sitting here on a Saturday afternoon & I’m reading about the end.
As in THE END.
As in predictions of the final curtain, visions of destruction. Trumpets & seals & cups & oodles of 7’s. Th-th-the-that’s all f-f-folks!
The earth, it will end in fire & in water & it will end in asteroids & in Mexicans.
Generation after generation, all riled up about an end that never knocked. Layer upon layer of dusty eschatologies, disproven by default.
Paul was all riled up & his eyes were struck blind & his hair was on fire.
& he said if you weren’t already married then don’t even bother getting married now!
There’s no time!
Tell everyone before it’s too late!
There was a real sense of urgency about it.
How many bad dates have to come & go before there’s just a collective yawn?
What if things just go on & on & on &…
Way past the point where there is any point to be had?
& everything gets older & worse & the sky less blue & the grass isn’t hardly green at all no more? & the Lincoln Memorial cracks & the paint on the barn fades & no one bothers to write new songs or to clean the animals’ cages?
On & on, without even the vague hope of a fiery end or some new Hitler to capture our attention for a minute or two?
That guy out there howling in the street? You know, the one with the sandwich board that reads //The End is Near\\?
He could turn out to have been an optimist!