Well, as you can see, the end has come. Flames lick from from fissures opening from the pit of Hell and embers streak the sky in orange all to the crackle of gunfire and keening of death. I kid. Obviously we're dealing with a far more subtle form of the apocalypse*, an existential end, perhaps. What is worse that a dramatic, fiery end? Easy: a life of ennui.
The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation. What is called resignation is confirmed desperation. From the desperate city you go into the desperate country, and have to console yourself with the bravery of minks and muskrats. A stereotyped but unconscious despair is concealed even under what are called the games and amusements of mankind. There is no play in them, for this comes after work.
Okay, that bit about the muskrats needs updating, but Thoreau was on the same page, too. Thus, in seeing a fiery-less world out there--one in which, cunningly, deceivingly, the sky is painted a rare eggshell hue, not orange--I can only conclude that the Mayans foresaw something so horrible that no one dare think it. It is like contemplating eternity--eventually you realize torment is mundane things.
We have the last laugh, though. For, in the absence of fire and nuclear fallout, we are left--even in our crushing ennui--the option of going to the pub. A pint of sunshiny IPA and good conversation in a cozy, warm room. We'll be fine.
Update. This blog was just cited in one of those best-of lists you see around this time of year (you know, the kind I used to have time to do), which is actually pretty good evidence of the end of the world.
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*Unless you're the Speaker of the House, in which case it may feel more lifelike.
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