How would you feel if the world was to end tomorrow?

The question (or at least similar) are asked often, of course. If you had one day, two days, a week: if you had one last visit, one last trip, what would you do? But your final actions are only part of the discussion here. My question is how you would feel.

Well, you’d probably be scared, of course. Perhaps you’d feel resigned. One might even feel a little grateful: the collapse of the universe as we know it will get you out of that uncomfortable phone call scheduled for next Tuesday that you’ve been delaying for the past week. But, with twenty-four hours to make your peace with the world and yourself, it wouldn’t be easy.

Of course, it might not be 24 hours. The news, broadcasting loud and strong, said “tomorrow”. They did not say “tomorrow at early morning” or “tomorrow at midday” or “tomorrow in exactly 24 hours”, as you took it, but you do not need specifics to begin to panic. Perhaps you’d manage a quick prayer to your deity(ies) of choice. Perhaps you’d masturbate one last time. Read your favourite book or play your favourite game. Your mind would snap to shiny, instant gratification— good, quick hormones— and once that beautiful rush to do something has been strained from your system, you sit.

You have 23 hours to go. Now what?

Perhaps now is when you realise that you are scared. Yeah, getting out of commitments is nice and all, but what about… you know… the end of the world? And your breathing picks up, and your heart is racing, and you read something once about nice deep-breathing exercises, but how are you to recall that when the air is so thick and the room is so small and THE WORLD IS GOING TO END TOMORROW AND YOU ARE SITTING HERE DOING NOTHING.

By the time the hyperventilation and the mind-fogging panic dies down (because it always does, no matter how scary it is in the moment), you are filled with a new purpose. To do something.

You always wanted to go overseas. Is 22 hours too late to book a flight? How long will the flight take? Do you have the money for it? You could go spend some time with your friend, but no—he’s out of town right now. You pace the house. You lay down in bed. You twiddle your thumbs. You think about how you have 21 hours, and that you should’ve acted by now, but you’re not doing anything.

Truth be told, you never thought the world would like… end. You knew it was coming someday, but in this lifetime? Did the dinosaurs ever look up into the abyss, see their doom trickle across the horizon, and prepare themselves for the sky to fall?

20 hours. You call your mother.

“The world is going to end,” you say, choking on the air.

“I’m sorry that’s upsetting you.” She responds, flat. You know she doesn’t care.

Does she not get it? It will all end soon. It will all collapse, and you all will be gone. Dead. Buried.

19 hours. Dinner time. You have no appetite, but you try anyway. Eventually, you manage to force down a slice of bread.

Next, you put on your favourite record. It’s a slow song. That makes you feel worse.

You try your second-favourite record. A fast song. It makes you feel hollow.

It’s a gross kind of hollowness, like someone carved out your heart with a scalpel, or that thing they use to make balls out of melons. You waste a precious minute frantically Googling in an effort to remember the name ‘melon baller’, and then that digs another hole in your chest because of course it was, you’re so stupid, the world will end in 18 hours and you’re wasting your time looking up melon ballers.

The politicians in the news are warning of a Doomsday. The representative on one side advises hiding in bunkers. The representative on the other wants you to cast your vote for him, so he will get to die knowing he would’ve won the upcoming election. You don’t have a bunker. You don’t know how to vote. You are failing things that you never could’ve planned for. You shut your eyes.

Is it worth sleeping? You’ll only wake up eight hours closer to the end of it all. But is it worth being awake when you’re not sure you remember how to breathe anymore?

You force yourself to sleep, ignoring the growing pain in your core.

You wake up later, and get a drink. Stumble back to bed, collapse into it, sleep till you snore, till your dreams are candyfloss and rainbows.

And then you wake up again, for real this time.

Good morning. It is 7 hours until the end of the world. And you have slept in much too long.

It feels like somebody has snipped an important wire in your brain that allows you to enjoy textures. Your fuzzy blanket is not fuzzy. Your cola is not fizzy. Your lollies are not sweet. You are a nothingness, and you are marching towards your doom.

People are screaming on the television. They are chattering over the radio. You can hear the refrigerator whirl. You briefly forget how to breathe, before picking it up at double the pace. The cereal you force down is only half-chewed.

You call your mother. She does not answer. Oh my God— is she dead? Why did you sleep when you could’ve gone to find her?? Spent your final moments by her side???????? Useless, useless, useless!

The world is to end in 6 hours. You shut down. You lie in bed.

5 hours, and you scold yourself for doing nothing, for feeling useless.

4 hours, and you cocoon yourself under layers of blankets and pillows, begging for a hug.

3 hours, and the waterworks break. When was the last time you cried? You were scared you had forgotten how.

2 hours, and you’re writing a will. Illuminated below the mess of sheets by your phone’s flashlight, you leave everything you have to your friend. That is, if he’s not also— fuck. The tears start again.

1 hour, and you’re fixed, staring at the clock. Every second ticks down, carefully catalogued by you. You find that softly clicking your tongue at the minute-marks helps ground you.

Thirty minutes. Your eyes are sore, the blanket bunched up around your face damp. You think about how horrible you are. You think about the embrace of death. You think about your mother.

Twenty minutes. The thoughts won’t stop. Perhaps they have a right to live in your mind, after all, taking up residence in the corners of your psyche. They are you, after all. Even if they make you ache, make you hurt, it’d be rude to get rid of them.

Ten minutes. You’re thinking about your old therapist. She passed you onto someone who claimed to have medication that can help you. You had refused.

Five minutes. If you hadn’t refused, maybe you wouldn’t feel so…? If you hadn’t refused, maybe you’d actually know how you feel right now. Maybe the weight on your chest would be lighter. Maybe if you had taken those pills, the world would not be ending. Maybe if you had visited your mother more, the world would not be ending. Maybe— what if—

Five seconds.

Four seconds.

Three seconds.

Two seconds.

One second.

You close your eyes. You brace for impact. For destruction. For doom. But all you feel is this weight on your shoulders, this weight in your heart, the pressure of your eyes shut. Your mind won’t stop either— what does dying feel like? Is this what it’s like to have life flash before your eyes?

It is a minute longer before you open your eyes.

The world has not ended.

You are safe.