on apocalyptic living

This Dead and Dying World was published at the Atticus Review and it got me thinking about the apocalypse, and apocalyptic fiction in general. And then today, my essay On Dust was published at Entropy and it got me thinking about mortality.

But probably I’m always thinking about these things.

Lately especially. I’ve been thinking about how the world doesn’t need us, and the last novel I wrote, the two I’ve been working on, and probably some more things in the future deal with this. The world will continue without us and extend well beyond us. It’ll probably become a beautiful and wondrous place to live once humanity is gone.

And so I find hope there. I find hope in our apocalypse.

Maybe that sounds morbid, but I don’t believe we deserve the earth. I don’t believe the earth belongs to us. We belong to it. And we’ve failed it countlessly. Especially in the last hundred years, but pretty much constantly since the industrial era.

I imagine silence. The silence of the world past humanity.

I imagine the beauty of the stars after light pollution disappears.

I imagine how amazing life will be once we’re gone.

I know, I know.

But it fills me with joy. I want to stand on the edge of eternity. I want to stare into an unfiltered sky. I want to walk through a world untainted by hate and humanity.

Nature doesn’t hate us, but it’s clear we hate it. And there’s only so long it’ll put up with us.

But, anyrate, I guess that’s why so many of my novels are apocalyptic in nature. Even the ones that aren’t involve a great deal of dying, and especially dealing with the Death of others.

So it goes.

Noir: A Love Story comes out on Friday.

I hope you buy it.

I hope you love it.

I hope we can dance past humanity’s ending.


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