writing like there's "no tomorrow" A

Today is the last day, so the purpose of this is nil. When I finish I could show it to someone else, and hope that they understand my point. It wouldn’t matter anyway. This, them and me are all going to vanish. All things considered, there was no purpose for anyone to communicate with anyone else, ever. If it was all going to end like this eventually, it wouldn’t matter if I wrote this a century ago and it was published and praised as a masterpiece. It wouldn’t matter if this was a revered religious text believed by half the world. This, them and me would all vanish, just the same. I don’t even know what I could say that would mean anything. Similarly, I didn’t know what I could say that would mean anything before this turn of events(or absence of the turn of events) either.

I’ll write to inform. Inform the aliens, the mass of energy, or the time-jumping mysterious goop that will inevitably survive this and come out able to read and comprehend english. I have to assume this will happen; because to imagine an actual end, or a void devoid of consciousness, is outside of my purview. I would define a feeling, and what an agent feels as their take on a certain reality, that’s not by nature tied to logic. With all things ending in only a matter of hours, I feel ripped off. I feel like I was promised more than this. I don’t believe in destiny, fate or a god, so really I know that I wasn’t promised anything. I still feel like I deserved more than this. Again, since I didn’t earn my existence, I know I didn’t deserve anything. When I reconsider carefully, the universe was ripped off. I was let loose on it, it didn’t consent to my existence. Afterwards, I ran around wherever I pleased and sucked pleasure out of it like a leech sucks blood out of a boy scout on a camping trip.

Not that I feel guilty; far from it. I feel angry. Angry that I didn’t absorb more happiness and sheer pleasure before. Pragmatically speaking, I should be outside breaking things and making love. Impending doom has a way of mixing things up, so I’m writing instead. Now, with all things ending in only a matter of hours, I feel gratitude. I didn’t earn or deserve my life, so by getting anything at all, I got more than I never asked for. I wish I could tell that through an intercom to the whole world. In particular the ones yelling at the sky to reconsider, and the one’s in total denial of the end. Clearly, I can’t. If I wrote this 10 years ago, maybe it would have made all of the conscious life on this planet that can understand complicated language, called humanity, nice and relaxed at this abrupt end. It’s too late, just like it was a few paragraphs ago.

I can’t stay angry at the universe for ending any more than I can stay angry at a person for their suicide. Actually, because the universe is incapable of decision, I can’t stay angry at it any more than I can stay angry at a tree for getting chopped down. Actually, because no one is responsible for this turn of events(or the absence of the turn of events), I can’t stay angry at it any more than I can stay angry at a person for getting killed by lightning. Instead of anger I feel a little bit of sympathy for it, and a lot more tranquility. Tranquility that, like all things past and present, I don’t deserve.

See you later suckers! I’m gonna dissapear! I love you, and fuck you all!