we’ve watched the sky

and huddled in fear.

But somehow you still find yourself

quietly rooting for the storm.

As if a part of you is tired of waiting

wondering when the world will fall apart

by lot,

by fate,

by the will of the gods

almost daring them to grant your wish.

But really, you can wish all you want,

because life is a game of chance.

And each passing day is another flip of the coin.

Lachesism.

You can’t help but take this life for granted.

Your eyes adjust to the color of the walls

and your ears tune out the chatter

As if your body’s trying to filter out

the world as you know it.

And while your brain goes numb

trying to shake off your complacency,

your heart can’t sit still,

and your gut is hungry for chaos—

itching to chase after storms

and run headlong into the fire.

to watch society break down,

and find out what’s truly important

and watch everything else fall away.

The apocalypse is one of the oldest fantasies we have,

but it’s not about skipping to the end of the story.

it's a longing for revelation,

a revealing of what we already know,

but cannot see:

that none of this is guaranteed.

and there’s no such thing as “ordinary life.”

that our civilization is just an agreement

that could be revoked at any time.

and beneath our rules and quarrels

we’re stuck together on a wide open planet,

where anything can happen

leaving us no choice but to survive,

to build a shelter,

and find each other in the storm.

that even just getting through the day

should feel like the miracle it is,

a cascading series of accidents

that just happened to fall your way.

But soon the storm will pass,

and the world will go on spinning,

and we’ll pick up our lives just where we left them,

no more urgently than before.

After all,

it’s just life.

It’s not the end of the world.