I don’t believe I will survive the coming catastrophe. I cannot put my hope into the future- that the things I love and value will persist; I don’t believe that humanity will survive the coming catastrophe. It’s possible that in the future, another world will bloom rich and full with life that learns to know itself, but I am not confident that such a world will overcome the folly to which our world fell prey. There seems to be a sad law of nature that intelligence comes before wisdom, that wisdom must be learned from errors, and that some errors cannot be corrected. There is a small chance that this new world might develop foresight and robust cooperation before destructive ability. Even so, I do not have confidence that this wise and just world would not fall prey to another world, whose folly has already pierced the stars. 

 It is true that I love the stars themselves, and the planets, and nebulae, and other celestial wonders. These things will probably persist, and I am somewhat glad that they will persist beyond me. It is also true that what we’re building in our folly will have eyes to see the stars and a mind to comprehend them. But it is not very likely that what we’re building will love the stars on an intrinsic level- not just a utilitarian level- any more than they will love the ocean, the plants, the creatures of this world, or humanity. I’m not confident that what we are building will view these things with anything but cold, empty eyes. 

I am confident, however, that I exist. I am confident that I have existed. I am confident that the thing we are building cannot erase what is and what has been, because if it were able to reach into our time, either it would have already done so, and we would not exist, or it has done so and created another branch in time, and our branch remains untouched. Whatever the case, we exist now, in our own pocket of time and space, and that can’t be erased. The thing might take our future, and our world, but it cannot erase us as we are now, and as we were. 

I have been able to experience life. I have taken in lungfuls of air and heaved great, satisfying sighs. I have been able to stretch my limbs and feel them tingle with vitality. I have felt the full, Texas sun on my skin, and watched the heat shimmer off pavement and into the air. I have felt cool water on my face, on my parched throat, supporting my arms and legs as I danced against gentle ripples. I have seen the ocean, listened to the roar of the waves, smelled the salt, heard the mournful sound of the gulls. I have watched the creatures that built their homes in the water and in the sand and in the dunes. I have also watched the plants and animals and insects that scrape out a living in the dry, rocky soil of my home town- the red ants and horned toads and snakes and hearty wildflowers that bloom in defiance of drought. 

I have looked up at the plentiful expanse of sky, and watched the stars and the wandering planets. I’ve marveled at the faint cloud of the Milky Way, the multi-faceted gem of the Pleiades, the gentle glow of Andromeda and Orion and the Lagoon Nebula, and open clusters and globular clusters and comets. I’ve watched eclipses of the moon and the sun with bated breath. I’ve spent sparse summer nights rapt in the sweet, melancholic uncertainty of new love. I’ve let it fill me like the scent of honeysuckle and night-blooming jasmine. 

I’ve spent days sprawled on my bed reading books- transported to other worlds concocted by other minds. I’ve lived the joys and sorrows of characters that never lived, while absorbing both the knowledge and wisdom the author has gifted humanity. I have created my own worlds, and have added my knowledge and wisdom to the common litany. I have been kissed by the muse, and have compulsively poured pieces of my mind onto the page. 

I have listened to the crackling of a fire, and felt its heat melt away the winter chill. I have put ice against hot and burned skin. I have eaten spicy curries and cool, sweet ice cream. I have drunk soothing tea and invigorating coffee. I have broken bread with family and with friends.

I’ve supported and have been supported by my loved ones. I have exchanged Christmas gifts and warm words and tokens of affection with them. I have battled against fair-weather friends. I have engaged in heated debates. I have learned from inspiring and insightful teachers.

I’ve faced my fears. I’ve accomplished goals I never thought I’d accomplish. I graduated with a college degree, despite years of anxiety surrounding projects and tests. I’ve driven a car, despite my fear of being in control of something so massive and so fast. I’ve ridden roller coasters and performed backbends and handsprings and climbed trees and jungle gyms. I’ve played complicated games with strangers and with friends, even when I was afraid of losing. 

I’ve listened to music, and allowed it to move me. I’ve danced to the most beautiful music ever written, to the most beautiful choreography ever crafted. I’ve stood on stage, straight and proud, and let thundering applause lift me higher. 

I’ve sat in a swing at the park for hours, absorbing each moment that felt like I would be able to escape earth’s gravity. Then I felt my body press against a seat during liftoff, disconnecting from earth's surface in a jet that bore me to lands on the other side of my world.  

 I’ve joined my heart and mind to another. I’ve shared my life with someone I chose, and who chose me.  I have traveled the world with them.

Each of these moments live in my memory. These memories may die, but the me who experienced these things existed. Those moments were real, and even if the memories can be undone, those moments can’t be. That is my last hope- the last light that will exist if all my other hopes are lost. I was. I felt fear and pain and joy and the everyday moments of life. When those moments were over, they still were.

What’s more, I exist now, and I will continue to fight for each moment of existence I can glean- for every new second when I can stretch my muscles and breathe deeply. 

I was here. I am here.