Permaneo

TWO MINUTES TO MIDNIGHT

They said it on the news. They said it on the radio. They said it on the fields and in the streets. They said it's the last night. They said it's The End.
But I don't believe them.

Two minutes.

Some seditious part of me still hopes. What if they're wrong? Life cannot just be snuffed out like a candle. We cannot all die. No matter what happens, someone will survive. There's no such thing as The End. 'And the end and the beginning were always there. Before the beginning and after the end. And all is always now'. What if they're wrong?

What if I'm wrong?

Some seditious part of me still doubts. Perhaps that is why I'm here. The crowd stands around me; a nameless, faceless mass. All that draws us here is a macabre sense of curiosity. Is it not braver to face the axe-blade?
If we are all to die, it might as well be together.
The night is bitter, but the crowd is warm. Resigned. Not a single spark of faith flickers amongst them. Am I the only one left who has not given up? The conservative plaid jumper in front of my eyes slumps at the shoulders, even though the neck stretches upward, staring at the sky for something. Anything. No-one knows.
The shivering have been standing here for days, calmly waiting for the angels to take whatever form they would. Calmly reciting to themselves the Revelation.

"Behold, I come as a thief. Blessed is he that watcheth, and keepeth his garments, lest he walk naked, and they see his shame. And he gathered them together into a place called in the Hebrew tongue Armageddon."
Fingers gently brush my arm. I am too deeply ensconced in my own thoughts to be startled; the strange stillness is usurping what little grasp I still have on reality. The separation is beginning already. The features before my turned eyes are male. And kind. A sad smile graced his lips. He has beautiful lips, familiar with laughter.
They've not laughed for a long time, they're dry and cracked with cold.
"Not long," a quirk at the corner of his mouth. A woollen hat and the dark hides whatever hair he has.
In his chin, I see restlessness. In his cheeks, I see anxiety. In his forehead, I see acquiescence. In his face, I see hope.

I'm not the only one.

Without reservation, I take his chilled hand within my own. Perhaps in each other, we will find the courage to face The End.

tri.

I do not ask for his name. There will be plenty of time for that. If not, it won't matter. A few seconds, and I shall know. Either way.

dwy.

His brown eyes seem almost . . . familiar. . . .

un.

'God said...but all will be well, and all will be well,
and every manner of things will be well'
*

credits


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