When I was eleven, the world was supposed to end.

The ball was going to drop, it would be the first day of the year 2000, and the apocalypse was going to begin. It seems ridiculous now, but people believed it, and it sometimes still feels like we’re on borrowed time.

Because we survived. No one did anything, no one saved the day, the apocalypse was just never a threat. We thought the end was nigh and it wasn’t, it was never nigh.  It was never real.

It broke the apocalypse for me. It set post-apocalyptic fiction permanently in the realm of fantasy; some strange, alternate world that would never be real. The paranoia and panic of the cold war became fascinating and mysterious and thoroughly historical. The threat is gone.

I think every generation secretly believes that they will see the end of the world, but mine knows it will not.
We know we have only life to look forward to.

We have no easy out.


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