She
There is a voice in your head. Not a clear voice, not well enunciated words with a specific timbre reminding you of some old friend from long ago, someone you can’t quite remember. Not yet. This voice, now, today, is little more than an impression. An idea. You think the idea is yours, but it is not. Not yet. It feels like it. Feels like this idea, this impression, this simplest of thoughts, one so natural as to hardly be noticed, has come from your own beliefs, your well-earned lifetime of knowledge, your faith.
This idea, this voice floating about your mind is little more than this: you are working too hard. You are too busy. You spend too much time on your phone. Too much time distracted. Not a revolutionary idea. Not even an uncommon one. You have simply allowed one thought, one common thought to rise above the others, one voice, whispering in your ear, not yet specific in sound but clear in idea. You need rest.
Your body is not tired, nor is your mind. You simply wonder to yourself if maybe, perhaps, after all this time, after all this work, tired or not, you might have earned a small break. Even as the voice of shame, the voice of regret, the voice of disgust fight with each other to nudge you from this desire, your new friend, she, makes you comfortable in your comfort. You dismiss your fear, your guilt, and smile in the knowledge that it takes courage to rest, to push away the distractions of life and commune with the world.
Rest, says she, calm yourself. Slow your breath and allow the world to flow through you. Tell me your troubles if you must, if sharing them will remove your burden, but do it slowly, one thought at a time. Let your troubles break apart into tiny pieces, let them wander about, lose their power as they drift away from each other, their power in numbers diminished by their distance.
Do not close your eyes. Do not sleep. Stay with me, says she, and we will talk together. Listen to the quietness of your soul, hear each leaf fall to the ground outside your window, feel the cool air of your room as it breathes into your body, feel the warmth as it leaves, hear the snowflakes as they fall from the clouds above.
Your time left on this earth is short, says she. Why spend it rushing about, working for the sake of work, when you have hardly noticed the world you are leaving?
You don your coat and take a walk, a stroll, feel your heartrate slow, feel the tingle of your breath as it lolls about inside your lungs, the blessing of letting the pressure fall away, the calm of the emptiness that remains. You look above to the few remaining autumn leaves trembling on the treetops, the gentle sway of the crowns even as the trunks cling firmly to their homes. You watch the treetops drift back and forth against the blue sky, feel the same gentle sway in yourself. Feel the movement of the earth, your place in the universe.
Go ahead, says she, stop in the park. Sit with the other quiet souls enjoying the crisp and beautiful day. No need to talk, to gossip or make small talk. Simply sit, enjoy each other’s presence, know that you are part of a larger world. Seek the flow of the universe and join it. Fear not closeness with your neighbors. For even as you feel your worries fall away, so too do they. The tingle you feel in your breath, so too do they. Allow your calm to share itself, to help your neighbors, to spread itself about the world.
And you sit. You smile at the stranger next to you on the bench. The stranger that does not shy away when you sit, perhaps, a bit too close. The stranger who does not speak. The stranger who has recently left a small gathering of others, quiet people in a quiet place allowing their peace to commune and grow. A stranger soon to return home, says she. To sit. To watch the world fall away.
To die, as all things must.
That such quiet serves her destructive ambition matters not. For her voice cannot be ignored. She cannot be dismissed. She works her way into your mind like an old friend standing by your bedside as life slowly leaves your body. A spouse of fifty years, a bittersweet smile upon her face, holding your hand as you wait for death.
That the end of humanity has come with peace and grace is our final blessing. A quiet kiss on the forehead. One last brushing back of the hair. A smile.
And mankind dies peacefully in her sleep.