The ball has gone down,
and nothing comes.
They said that the past was prologue,
but thats not entirely correct;
No, not even a vague semblance of the
truth.
The past was epilogue, and now the present
Is nothing more than the ever-stretching
void after the fact,
The forever silence waiting for the deads
next breath,
Waiting for the next scene after the closing
credits.
The past is past, and the future, empty,
A husk devoid of optimism, and now even
its pessimism;
The only remaining option is to find a
different road than the future.
The ball has gone down, and now we are
suffocating.
In this void between the centuries we
stand looking uncertainly at one another,
Fossilized by the uncanny inability to
visualize any year with more than two
zeroes
As anything shy of Tom Swift, or Buck
Rogers.
We look imploringly at one another, each
of us wondering desperately
When someone will break out the tinfoil
jumpsuits and rocket packs,
And when the first spaceship is supposed
to come into sight over the skyline.
Slowly, one by one, we sit Indian-style
on the floor
And quietly wait for time to make up its
mind.
A week ago, a million desperate prophets
cried in anxious unison
That the end of the world was surely upon
us.
They had, of course, been saying such
things for centuries,
Seeking in vain to regain their honor,
their credibility,
And praying at every twilight that the
sunlight never comes.
Now, however, they sit beside us,
Placards lowered between their legs in
impotent vindication,
They've no more idea of what comes next than we
do.
What happens at the end of the world,
not even Nostradamus could have predicted.
The clocks, frozen for a few heartbeats
in hesitant contemplation,
Begin to tick again. Backwards.
Time has simply stopped at the end of
the world,
Looked about itself and thought, "Huh.
So this is what its like.
Well, why not go the other way for awhile?"
And, one by one, we stand. Now helpless
passengers,
The matter of free will once and for all
decided,
We begin to retrace our steps.
We start dating exes whom we no longer
love,
But as time continues to recede we see
how things went the way they did,
See the reasons behind the consequences
and realize they werent as bad as
all that,
But we know in each case how the relationship
will end,
With an introduction by a friend, or a
too-cute scene in a bar.
Beginnings and endings have traded places,
And life overflows with tragedy,
Because every love necessarily ends just
when it was getting interesting.
Best of all, or worst of all, we dont
forget.
Blessed now with perfect hindsight, it
becomes easier to forgive slights.
Whole wars are forgiven, because even
though we cant change anything,
We see things illuminated in the unique
headlights of history.
Whole generations, knowing where they
went wrong,
Wander through their old familiar stomping
grounds
With a smile and a shrug, screwing up
and shrugging it off because it wasnt
their fault,
Time made them do it, or time is merely
making them do it again.
Its already been done the first
time. Everythings been decided.
Nothing left to do now but enjoy the ride.
One by one, we shrink.
We regain our virginities with the nobility
of menopause,
Our hairlines creep their way down our
foreheads,
Wisdom teeth crawl reluctantly back up
into our gums
And we find baby teeth in the strangest
places around the house,
Silently compelling us to work them back
in,
Wiggling them back and forth until they
are once again secure.
Every day something old works its way
back into place,
Something works a little easier than it
did the day before,
And the whole world begins to regain a
sense of wonder.
Objects, instead of being invented, are
gratefully retired.
Having seen what all they could do, all
our mechanical gods
Are disassembled, sorted out into components
and parts, and filed away.
Wonder regains its kingdom, both in nature
and in the antique.
We remember why the sky is blue, how plants
make energy from the sun,
How a computer juggles vast numbers with
little points of light,
And why a beautiful butterfly and an ugly
caterpillar are so intimately connected.
But suddenly, chlorophyll and pupae and
circuitry are once again things of magic,
And the world is filled with squeals of
delight and whole cacophanies of clapping
hands.
We retain all our years and years of experience.
The difference is,
The apathy has simply wandered away.
Our parents and mentors return to us.
As children, we climb back into their
arms and tell them the stories of our
lives.
We tell them what we did, what torches
we carried, what innovations we bore,
And they listen intently with amazement
and pride.
As we grow younger still, its like
night falling on Christmas day.
Tired and happy, we crawl back into our
cribs, and then into infancy,
And, fulfilled, we return to our wombs.
We have reviewed our lives,
Our reversed millennium a chronological
Saint Peter,
And having forgiven ourselves our sins,
we return to a warm, red heaven
And slip back and away, into Time.