The Brink of Destruction

For quite some time now, I've been making a conscious effort to keep up with the news - not local news, but international. Because our reality seems to be in utter chaos, with every indication that it's only going to get worse, my curiosity is understandably piqued, given my fascination with End Times scenarios and the dreadful history of our race. All the while, I've been quietly and, admittedly smugly, saying to myself that World War III had already begun, and it only need be officially announced.

Earlier, I came across this news story, and it made me pause. My normal defenses against fearing the inevitability of our destruction and maintaining a stoic response to the coming storm stopped for just a brief few minutes, and I began to think about all that happened before and during World War II.

Uncle Michael, Aunt Tudi, and The Father Unit were all War Babies, some of the very first in what would be called The Baby Boom. A population explosion is typical during times of duress for, in my opinion, two main reasons: 1) It's a biological imperative that kicks in to preserve the species during a perceived extinction threat and 2) People lose their fear of positive emotions because they feel like, if they don't express them now, they will never have the chance, and people who have loved or are loved may die without ever having expressed or known it.

And so it comes to this. I am afraid, not of being killed or watching the human world die. My enthusiasm for that won't fade, and I've often said I'd volunteer to be the first in line, if it meant our demise would ensure the Earth would continue and flourish with better, worthier species inhabiting it. I am afraid because I am in love, and I have been for a very long time. He doesn't know, and I never expected he would, because I certainly had no intention of telling him. I don't do love well.

If the situation in our world gets increasingly dire, though, I feel more inclined to admit myself. I don't think it would change anything between us, at least I hope not. Fear that it would is what has stayed my hand all these long years. But, if we are all going to die anyway, why should I worry about that? Presently, I fear not telling him more than I fear losing him because, at this rate, I'm going to lose him either way.

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