"The end of the world is cliche. I look down and see a book that tells how the world will end. I look up and see the face of the one explaining the story to me. I look forward, straight forward, and never look back. I'm not afraid of the world's end. We don't know if life even will end, but don't question.
And what if it's already ended? How can we know that we aren't just dreaming, rocketing forward in time as we lay on our deathbeds? There's no way to tell. There's no way to know, for a certainty, that the crazy people locked away in in the asylum are really crazy. There's no way to tell that their rambling is false, no way to tell if the dead walk among us or not. No way to tell if the girl who throws herself to the ground in front of me, sobbing violently, can really see them, hear them. Do they speak to her? Do they speak to us? Maybe they do and we just aren't listening. Are you listening? No. You think they're gone, but there's no way to know...but don't question. If you can't see the answer, don't go in search of it.
No way to know that the reflections in the mirror aren't conscious. No way to know if the world will end when the ancient calendar does. No way to know if the person sitting on a street corner screaming warnings can really see the future. Stop condemning the crazies to the secluded life in the asylum. Maybe we can see the future. Don't question. Let us go. Let us all go. Let us all go now. Do you hear me? LET ME GO! LET ME OUT OF HERE! I DON'T BELONG!" My calm demeanor melted away in an instant. "LET ME OUT!" I screamed this over and over as the guards dragged me to my cell. They called it a room, but I couldn't- I can't leave it. After they slam the door shut and lock it tightly, they stroll off.
When their shift ends, they can just drive home. They probably have families waiting. They probably think they're going to go home tonight, maybe in a few minutes.
I keep screaming as I beat on the door, as I claw away at the clear, glossy finish. The finish that is just flammable enough in liquid form.
I understand it now. I understand it all. I know why my brain made me hide away the lighter under my bed. I drop a few scraps of the glossy finish in my half- filled water glass. Then a few more scraps. Then even more. Soon there's equal amounts of finish and water in the glass. It will take a few days to melt, but when it does, I'll escape. Mere arson is not enough for me. I'm leaving the asylum in style.
I'm not crazy. I can see the future. Don't question me.
