of: Apocalypses ^^
When we started 97 days ago, into the apocalyptic winter, the silence between us was wide enough to echo the blasphemous calls of cars honking in the distance and the frantic, puzzled screams of families and friends being devoured whole – only to become one with the massive sea of an anonymous plague.
Now, the void that churns and fills the spaces where our hands should be held is accepting, cautious and calculated. You would be surprised at how the absence of humanity will pull you closer to the presence of those who are there – and farther way from the things you have understood as real.
The disease can be traced back to the revealing of a breakthrough immunization in its earliest stages of testing. What we know of this, we were able to collect from the last two weeks of anchored public television. It just so happens that when shit hits the fan, people are less likely to show up to work. As if every single person suddenly had a close family member struck by death, and we were all willing to be there, sympathetic allowance for their loss. It is ironic how quickly things fall apart when the people around you turn their cheeks.
The immunization was a medley concoction meant to simplify the length of the yellow pieces of paper we are forced to carry throughout our life-times. It occurred to TPTB that the simplification of this process, the extermination of millions of 30 minute appointments that were held accountable for a mere 30 seconds of an individual’s time, might benefit the efficiency of the system. The general populace at the time had no need to complain about the lack of precaution and would not fret about the decrease in mandatory hospital visits.
Sometimes if I am not careful, I will daydream. The house we are living in this week was inhabited by a family – two children, a mother and father. According to their furniture, they were young, hip and bourgeois. Most likely born into money and connections; they may have been able to navigate their careers through a few phone calls and names. Sometimes I still find myself jealous of this.
Are you listening?
He is irritable today. As usual. He is wearing that blank, unbelieving stare that is accusing me of something that is not my fault. I look at him sharply so he withdraws, then redirect my attention to the window.
The undeniable, irrepressible hunger for familiarity envelopes me as I scout the desolate landscape. I look in vain for the ghosts of Americana that once thrived here. Uncontrolled lawns have outgrown their edges, and several homes have been overcome by ivy – as if they, too, can feel the weight of the human situation.
I’m ignoring you, actually.
Hmph. Right.
I study his expression, the imprints of struggle beginning to take their toll – his lack of sleep apparent by an uneven complexion and his beard, a growth of wire and dirt, is hygiene’s reminder of the debilitating shortage of running water. I make a mental note to locate a new shirt for him – his latest being covered in grime, sweat and sometimes blood.
The room is a French vignette in the foyer of the building. The shutters have been angled to let in little light, and on the floor we have placed several candles in bowls for the coming night. At a different time, it would have been a wonderful show home. The ornate wooden chairs (now firewood), painted iron, and loose drapes and curtains now murmur to themselves as though they are all commiserating the onslaught of dust.
He moves throughout, checking flashlights, counting cans and calculating escape routes. Our excommunication of survival begins to tug at us, distancing us from each other in turmoil and sometimes forcing us to cling to each other in distress. We feel the odd sensation of being the last two people in the neighborhood, and town.
So, what’s the plan?
Even though I already know the answer, the awkward transaction of information places us on the same page.
His shrug ignites a small urge to push him. It subsides as he sits beside me, extending a hand over my shoulder. I quickly glance outside the shutters – we are only an hour away from nightfall. Turning towards his profile, I wait for the sad, sorry kiss of dusk.
”No Fear | No Folly” (unfinished) - 2011
