My friend swears apocalypse is the wrong word.

I love the kid to death, but he’s dead wrong.

I think we’re all conditioned to associate apocalypse and Armageddon and Judgment Day with falling buildings and city-hungry tsunamis and the Second Coming, sky opening up for the light to eat us whole. We revert to Revelation, the rapture, bridges collapsing atop fleeing families, and Repent! The end is near! The drama of the end of days is a Hollywood box office spectacle and we romanticize it into our own collective prophecy. Pass the popcorn, please. You don’t wanna miss the meteorite scene.

But I mean apocalypse in the sense that all of our worlds have already ended. These are miserable hours. Touchless, reclusive, solitary hours. You don’t have to be a Scripture fanatic to sense that this way of living hardly mirrors real life at all. I’m haunted by an ancient aftertaste, of pressing cheeks together in the summer like fleshy suction cups and being twirled to vertigo under Vincent’s starry night. My apocalypse looks like refreshing the news and forgetting to eat or water my plants. Like mourning over having experienced the tease of happiness. I felt it. I could touch it. But it was all an illusion.

It is easier to be a person around other people.

My apocalypse is embarrassing. It’s the suburban plight of a privileged twenty-something, childishly grieving the temporary end of her independence. It’s a pathetic apocalypse. Cabin fever and old traumas and reaching out to no one because it’s too much trouble explaining to the world how you never truly know your loneliness intimately until you’re a month into isolation and you realize you don’t have anyone to miss. My apocalypse would warrant a 0% on Rotten Tomatoes.

It’s that bad.

Not a single building has fallen. I’m writing to you from the stillness of my dollhouse life. Birds still chirp. It’s April. My hair is getting long and I’m both crazy and stir-crazy.

My friend swears apocalypse is the wrong word.

I love the kid to death, but he’s dead wrong.

Dead wrong.

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