What I wish I could say about collapse.

Hollowed out. When I wake up, I think about collapse. When I go to sleep, I think about collapse. Every day punctuated by a knowing, that we stand at the edge of time, on a precipice. It’s the backdrop to every news story, every issue. You think things are bad but will get better. I know they never really will.

“Good, looking forward to the weekend!” I reply.

Exhausted. Whiplashed by a culture that worships Superbowls instead of superb owls. The ad seconds ticking by, dripping with money and invitations to shop like a billionaire, and plastic pollution to feed our souls. Where they invent shows called Fire Country for entertainment, while ignoring the spectacles that feed the fire.

“Tired, stayed up watching that great game! What a nailbiter!” I reply.

Numb. Every day there are bombs. Another day in a war. Excuse me, wars, plural, but who’s keeping count? If I counted the bodies, if I let myself feel their suffering, I’d be suffering long into a future lifetime that doesn’t even exist. We weren’t supposed to be here. At least 7 billion of us, weren’t supposed to be here. Eeny meenie miney moe, which of us have to go? The lump in my throat won’t go away.

“Fine, busy as usual,” I reply.

I was born on the upper deck of the Titanic, after it already hit the iceberg. I might be part of the group that is last to drown, but I’ve looked out the window and see the bodies in the water, floating on broken shelves of ice. I sit down at the table, ante up, and am dealt another hand. Laughing with my friends and family, bewildered by our good luck and fortune. They haven’t looked outside, and I don’t mention what I’ve seen. I stay in the game, but I still hear the screams.

“Just trying to be grateful for all that I have,” I reply.