This record should be postulated first as an opinion. I may call myself a doctor, but I am by no means qualified to speak for the atrocities of me or my people. My crimes do not befit a proper defense, and in a somewhat ironic but consequential twist, the world has now collapsed with no end in sight. I’ve postulated that the way things have worked before, no longer function (even though they never did), and I suddenly find myself trapped in a small country called Untalo.

    This author’s note is meant to discuss the change and the lib of my own life as I waddle through the iridescence of the sociopaths which once ran this country. Having watched their leaders strung up by their feet with socks in their mouths, and their dead eyes staring straight into whatever was left of my soul, I can’t help but dedicate myself to the chaos.

    In many ways, I regret the choices I’ve made to survive since the end of the world, but I can soon see the end of the light, for when a forest burns, a flower blooms. Indeed, I say that the world hasn’t so much as ended, but begun anew to provide limelight to the issues which plagued us from the start.

    In recent times, Executio has been growing more and more rapidly across the western world. Their platform spells prosperous egalitarianism but perhaps forecasts a far lesser form of governance than the world we had just left.

This planet encompasses the minds of a great many, while a great few were only ever recognized. It is built on the idea of the individual, set forth in grand motion to accomplish feats of grand-masters in their field. But in many ways, this enveloped the weaknesses of corrosive functionality and degraded into something much more sinister.   Preserved, were the ideas of ownership, and came a rotten fruit which soiled the whole. It was that of war and intolerance; isolated from the population, those grand masters of tremendous feats, ones of businessmen, scholars, and generals took the future of ten billion people in their own hands, and with it, its destruction.   The great many that were left in the aftermath wondered to themselves: who are the next elected?

I will go more into the sins and sinners of the modern political disaster, no doubt an angry predecessor of the last world, but first, I must finish the true purpose of this author’s note, and defend my lengthy tangent.

Before what they call the Event, in which the world saw its mighty “end,” and the taxes and tribulations of the old world governments suddenly became minute and dry with support, I was obsessed with the idea of progress. Now do I see that progress has many forms, a great many of which could be construed as devilish, immoral, or painful in a spectrum of intensity. My modus operandi has never been to serve these immoral practices, but instead inhibit them from a position of misguided trust.

Even in rectifying my mistakes, I find myself begging to an otherworldly higher power for the forgiveness in which I refuse to give myself, although the position at which I was born, and in my own individuality, did not give me my due process.

The tears I cry are not ones of discrepancy in objectifying what world works best for my own pursuit of happiness, but instead what detail could have gone on longest so as to further my own hedonism. As were the sins of all those a part of the Tornun imperialism, I too cannot atone, but wallow in the mistake of integrated societism.

I may never see my children or husband again, but there is a new persona that dictates whether or not I will ever feel for them again. The dead or alive are both apart of this grandiose phenomenon, and I can only choose to seek answers in where my life, spent delegated by social expectation, lies in the perpetual chaos that is a post-pandemic world.