Spring 2024 — Postcards from a falling empire

Not to be dramatic but, I feel like everything is ending.

Even as we emerge, yawning and ravaged by the doldrums of Winter, gasping at the sudden intensity of the daylight, and the more generous length of the days. Even as the trees erupt with blossom, and the natural order shifts gracefully into a season of rebirth. Wherever I look, there’s an eerie feeling that the end is nigh. For civilisation as we know it at least.

As George Carlin once said: “The planet isn’t going anywhere… we are.” The inescapable fact is, this world will sneeze our species into a tissue, then carry on quite merrily for several billion years, before it too is barbecued and absorbed by the red giant sun.

Our moment here is fleeting. And although we may act like we invented the universe, and that we’ll be around forever, as cyborgs or god only knows what, the unsustainable and very temporary dance of human life will come to an end, whether we accept it or not.

To be fair, we probably won’t endure for much longer. The cracks in the whole mad façade that we’ve constructed are so gaping, so glaringly evident, you can paper over them with whatever delusional platitudes you like, but the cracks are there, and a fresh April breeze is whistling right through them.

You can tell yourself that politicians, or religious figures, or a more advanced race of beings will come and save us, if you still believe in such things. But in a system that flaunts and celebrates its own corruption, rewards the bad guys and the bastards, mocks or silences those who would speak or act against it, and would have us do nothing but consume, rest assured, we will be devoured. Collectively, we are just as self-destructive and impermanent as the stars. The rich and influential know, I am certain, that although they may have won the great lottery of birth, they are just as doomed as the rest of us.

In this game within a game, where we’re so focussed on chasing the monopoly money, and a million different kinds of nonsense, we forget it’s really all just musical chairs. Now and again the music stops, and for a moment we’ll collapse in breathless reverence, eyes wet, bewildered and in awe of our own heartbreaking brevity. We rise from our seats, vowing to dance harder, or softer, or kinder, to dance with fewer fucks, or greater purpose.

I wonder if this is what the tulips chant quietly to themselves as they burst from the soil, knowing each year will be their last. Everything is ending. It always is. So let’s shine brighter, bolder, louder, prouder. Let’s be as vibrant and as full of life as we can possibly be. Let’s use our colours, our words, and our voices, no matter who sees or hears us. Let’s take this moment and make a stand. What else is there to do, but have one last crack at Spring?