One morning, I woke and looked outside—I saw it.
The End.
A calm shadow on the horizon.
Silent. Unmoving.
I’m not ancient, only slightly bent by years,
but there it looms, closer—
See? That empty shape against the farthest wall.
I think that’s where the others went—
my parents, my friends, uncles, aunts, playmates, one by one—
slipping out of sight,
soft as breath.
I’ve watched people vanish.
I was warned this would happen.
But didn’t listen.
Brooding on the The End felt indulgent,
melodramatic, artificial.
Whereas the sky stretched forever—
wild, untamed,
without borders.
I made decisions about time—
emotional, prudent, good, bad—
but I always took for granted my endlessness.
Yet now—
watch how the distance folds in on itself,
the horizon blurring at its edges.
It isn’t quite a tunnel,
but the view is narrowing.
I can’t tell if The End is miles away
or only footsteps.
And there’s a sound now—
a soft ping,
echoing across the distance
like sonar.
Each time I plan, it asks:
Will there be time?
Will you still be here?
Will you still walk,
still breathe,
still crave?
Will you be alone?
Do you have enough?
Or will you run out
before you ever arrive?
