eschatochronalgia

At the end of time, I imagine there is one last respite. It will appear as a park bench, installed on a seawall that faces the last waters that will accept the last sunset. The world will have ended; all worlds will have ended. The galaxies will have uncoiled and spent all the energy of their burning stars; there is a muting of the thrumming swirls of the pieces of fundament of which all is made, and even the pull of oblivion ceases to hold.

When there is an end of all things, even nothing and no-things, of denials and divisions—there is that last bench. You are there now, as you have always been, as you will be—at the very end, there is no limit. Whenever you feel a great time has passed, when whole years seem to separate you from three days ago, you are there, at the end of everything, on the very last park bench on the final shores.

The very last skies will trace out the spectrum of colors, beginning with blazing white, descending into noblest red, and becoming deep amethyst as the last sunset really sets in, before all is subsumed into the totality of black.

There is no judgement here, no weighing. As the last memories of stars sputter out into nothing, the false worlds of dreams may breach out towards you. Maybe, in those last moments, you will find the deep magic for which you spent your life in hungry anticipation. At the end of all things, you will spell the true things and the false things, and these will be the very last things.

Perhaps, too, you will see great old dragons in lieu of the shoddy terrors you knew in life—because, who cares about things without dragons? And there, on the last bench in the last evening, you will catch the ride you always wanted, and fly off to something else, after all.