No End

About the Last Men

I am a reality machine. I don’t write for finding peace. There is no peace where I am. Peace terrifies me.

I am a builder of dim truths and blurry lines. The world I tell the story of stands on an edge, shifting sides and altering times always, seeking ways out, pursuing a sense that lures somewhere.

I write to fight my own sweet and slow death. I write because this is all I can do. I am the voice in my head that says there is no end, there is no end, there is no end.

This is why we remain — striving for life, grasping pieces of meaning and carrying them like a burden along the road. This is why we keep being. That feel of foreverness we hold onto when the world opens before our eyes. That unyielding faith in thinking we will leave a mark if we play our part. This is why we live.

This is why I’ll look for the crazy ones, the broken and the unfits, the castaways and the outlaws, the failures and the wretched, all speaking through the voices of history, all echoing the same burning rage for life, all surrendering peace and rest for the last bits of humanity standing over the world. The outcasts, the fallen, the forgotten.

The last men.