2050

Another Place, Sculpture by Sir Antony Gormley, Crosby, United Kingdom, Photo by the Author

Will we make it to the year 2050?

No. At least not in the way we think of humans occupying the planet. It won’t be nomadic bands led by warlords of popular Mad Max ruminations. And of course it won’t be the tech bros living on their 900-meter yachts or in their pseudo-Eden bunkers in New Zealand either. No. They and their entourages will have murdered one another or committed suicide once the reality of the end becomes apparent. Besides, the complex technologies of the 21st century will no longer be operable. Supposed gourmet, long-life tinned goods will have turned rancid sooner than advertised. After all, who are you going to hold responsible five years, ten years, or even fifteen years out? And importantly, money will no longer exist. Wads of cash and electronic payments will no longer buy food, labor, or love.

The earth — Gaia — is now gasping a few deep last breaths, thanks to the Coronavirus. But very soon the feedback loop from the ice-free, deep black oceans will heat the planet irreversibly, and the cataclysms will begin. They already have. It’s sooner, rather than later. The smart ones — about a billion — will have gone willingly. Most of the rest, in a frenzied orgy of despair.

Live now, for tomorrow we die.