The day after tomorrow, this will all be over. Again.

That's the problem with this repetitive eschaton, once you've seen one end of the world, you've seen them all. I've seen the world end in fire and in ice. I've seen it end with righteous fury, and with an uncaring whimper. Our bad decisions have come back to reward us, and the thing we never saw coming came. All these and more, and in one memorable occasion, a giant kitten.

It's hard to care, hard to even pretend to care when the world keeps ending, and for me keeps going on. I can live the same three days over and over, today, tomorrow, and the day after tomorrow, the day after. People will run and scream like Godzilla was destroying their city (as may have once happened, it's so hard to remember after so many times). Or they might just sit down, accept their fate. They can come together in love and acceptance, sing a song. But the end still comes.

That's the problem with this, for me the end never comes. It's not that I welcome death, far from it. But when you're trapped in that most insidious of puzzles, life, anything new is a welcome release. I've done this so often that I feel just as blase about a world-spanning epidemic as I do for whole nations laughing themselves to death. And the day after the day after tomorrow? There isn't. I'm back before that, back to today, the same day that I've been in a hundred, a thousand, a million times before.

Do I ever survive any of these cataclysms? It's hard to say, as I'm not entirely certain that I am alive. Or that alive has any meaning. Perhaps I've died and this is my just punishment. Or perhaps I can't die, and this is just what happens when the world runs out of sense. I don't know, and I might never know, but I suppose that the possibility always remains that something will change. Something.