Location: rando coffee shop Date: sometime in october Availability: open
Isaiah tapped the tabletop beside his laptop for a beat before letting out a sigh. The sources that he’d been tracking for what seemed like years were slowly blipping out one by one — their blogs getting a final, fearful post of riots or disease or both before going stagnant; before becoming archives.
He was getting more and more concerned emails with a side of terrified from his fellow conspiracy bloggers.
‘—I.F., I know you’re in the centre of some of this shit (at least from what you’ve been posting on BCOM) but I have to tell you I’m going dark; this is what I prepped for….’
‘—I.F., I went looking for answers and I found your blog. This is the end times isn’t it? You’ve been talking to demons. This is what we need to do — we need to get off this corner of the web and go dark we need to spread the message of….’
‘—I.F., I’m scared. What do you….’
‘—I.F., I’m terrified. There are too many patients and not enough resources; the govt has abandoned us to save themselves….’
Isaiah clicked out of the emails as fast as he could, one right after the other. He crouched over his laptop, bringing his hand to his forehead and rubbed. The world was going to shit, people were dying, this was— this was real. It wasn’t just some sandwich board preacher on the street corner yelling about the end times ( though they’d gotten more frequent, Isaiah had noticed, he saw them screaming while looking ill ).
“Fuck,” he said, blinking rapidly as the weight of the post he’d just made hit him, “the world really is ending isn’t it? We’re three down, one to go.”
I want to be asked about the thoughts that keep me up at night. For someone to wonder what goes on in my head. To ask what the song is I put on when I want to cry or the one that immediately puts me in a better mood. The things that make me miss home. To wonder how I take my coffee. I want for someone sit and wonder about all the things, big or small, that make me who I am.