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What happens when the future has come and gone?
— Robert Half

 What if Darwin’s wrong?  Each of us, every day, is crawling back to sea.  What if his view just wasn’t long enough?  Longing to float once more, throw off the bonds of gravity.

Maybe survival’s not our aim.  Surrender the strictures of spine.  What if we are all moving toward the point of destruction?  Unleash the lungs like water wings and sink luxuriously to ocean floor.

Consider Genesis.  Dad kicked us out of his house, his garden.  Now we’ve come back to trash the place.  Set fires.  Lay waste.

Our complex systems, elaborate technology—what if it’s just one suicidal slide?  Isn’t it true that in the long run, everything erodes?  Perhaps our species is the mutation, rogue gene come to bollux up the sequence.  Species reach their limits of adaptation.

Without opposable thumbs, it’s hard to pull a trigger.  If god sacrificed Jesus, just imagine what he’ll do to us.  That fear keeps our thumbs on the button summoning the end of this world.  How to evolve the monkey mind?

Or why not just say no?  We didn’t ask to be born and we sure as hell don’t want to put in the effort to evolve.  Consciousness is not worth it; it’s too painful.  We’re on strike, and we’re just going to sit here and hold our breath until we turn blue.

What if our ungraceful exit is part of the intelligent design?  Let’s pare away excess until I am but a single cell.  Where Darwin saw progress, I see egress.  Coded with potential for life, but refusing to live up to our potential.

Continents sink to ocean floor.  We will rest there for ten thousand years, or as long as it takes to forget.

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