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I know what the end of the world smells like.
It smells like a picture book that’s been read hundreds of times but still has the crisp new scent of freshly printed ink.
I own that book.
When I open it once every few months, I breathe deeply. I close my eyes and watch the sun’s light shatter across the sky. I watch as the back of my eyelids look more and more like burning trees, houses, and people.
Then, there is darkness. Not the kind of darkness that comes with the night, but a profound and deep darkness. There is no solid ground anywhere; it’s like swimming through a cold nothing.
Suddenly, in the corner of my vision, I see a light swim by me. Then there’s another, and another. After enough go by, I realize that I am one of these stars, and I swim faster in order to catch up.
It’s a race. We paddle out into space, and slowly all of the stars stop and settle in different places; they accept their fate.
I don’t, though. I keep going faster and faster; I dive deeper and deeper into the universe. I’m a shooting star and someone in another world is wishing upon me.
And this continues forever. There is nothing but pure, free, and rushing joy.
Yes, I know what the end of the world smells like, and I am not afraid.
