Happy, ending.

The world, they say, will come to an end in 2012. It hardly bothers me. The syllable at which Rolland Emerich, director of the disaster*, lost me was somewhere in the middle of the word 'world'. Shakespear thought it was a stage. But that was almost as disappointing as Rolland Emerich's conception of the physicalities of planet earth being dubbed as 'the world'.

'If the doors of perception were cleansed, everything would seem to man as it is; infinte.'- William Blake.

If you hate innane babble then this is about when you should go to the address bar and type www.facebook.com. There, I've given you a link too to make it easy. Because the words 'everything' and 'infinte' may at their very sight cause a psycological indigestion or regurgitation. In that vague, awe-inspiring and possibly random rant, William Blake gives the definition of the world. Everything, infinite.

So going back to the beggining, to 'the ending of the world', and the fear that I should have with regards to it, I must say, that my feelings towards the same are rather antithetical. The world must end. The everlasting nature of something that is everything, infinite, is the origin of sorrow. Everything must come to an end. Everything that begins must end. Only the fatherless can weather time. My greatest fear is that death is not an end. Laziness is an illusion. Apathy to work is (for me) an offshoot of the fact that nothing is ever created. To last. Or to any real purpose. Then why waste precious hours of dying. For the verb used rightly must be dying not living. We are not approaching a ressurection unless the Bible is truely the word of god, and god indeed is what he is meant to be, and there is above all, a consensus on both those facts. Nor are we being reborn, unless the fragment of the soul that lives on really does remember or relate or learn from or have even an intangible relevance to anything pertaining to a previous life. We are heading towards an end. And it isn't half bad. Think of the best movie you ever watched or the best song you ever listened to. Think of the best kiss you had or the most sumptuos meal you ate. Now imagine them not ending. Imagine endless labor to retain a life that even at it's best most people resentfully accept. And imagine an unending afterlife full of penances and hauntings only to be reborn and a rebirth to follow it. Life is arduos. Very dearly I hope, that death isn't. I just hope that sense of being dissipidates and what follows is a blank. One that I am not capable of sensing. The obliteration of all senses is bliss.