POLITICS AND POETICS
THE END OF THE WORLD AS WE KNOW IT (AGAIN)
WILLOUGHBY M. MYLES
February 5, 2025
Every generation has been convinced it was witnessing the end of the world. The Mayans saw it in celestial alignments, medieval peasants blamed it on comets and plagues, and the twentieth century gave us not one, but two, global wars, just in case the first one did not hammer the point home. Nostradamus has been keeping the doomsday-prophecy industry alive for centuries, and modern pundits have taken his place with a splash of YouTube and TikTok sensationalism. But let’s face it: we might actually be the ones to pull it off. We are living in a time when the phrase “What fresh hell is this?” feels less rhetorical and more like an hourly news update.
Start with Los Angeles, a city so flammable it might as well be made of matchsticks. It’s not just the wildfires—though those alone are biblical enough. It is the choking air, the displacement of thousands, and the eerie orange skies that make us wonder if we’re in some dystopian reboot of Blade Runner. Even the Hollywood sign looks like it’s thinking about packing up and moving to Canada. Meanwhile, across the country, Florida is drowning, New York is freezing like never before, even in the depths of winter, and the Midwest is being shredded by tornadoes. Climate change is not just a future concern anymore; it is nature’s way of sending us increasingly aggressive eviction notices.
And then there is Trump. Against all odds (and logic), Trump was reelected and, immediately after being sworn in earlier this week, delivered a speech so aggressive it made Ronald Reagan look like Mr. Rogers. He stopped just short (by an inch) of declaring war on Panama, floated the idea of annexing Greenland (again), and upped the stakes by suggesting Canada become the fifty-first US state, which has now turned into an idea we might start to consider for real. The speech, which included an emergency declaration at the border, felt less like a presidential address and more like a sequel to a dystopian political drama.
On Monday and Tuesday, Twitter (or X, as it is now inexplicably called) exploded like Berlin in 1945. Greenland’s official account tweeted, “We are not for sale. Again.” The Danish government issued a statement politely declining Trump’s unsolicited advances. The Canadian prime minister was spotted stress-eating poutine during an emergency press conference. Political analysts scrambled to make sense of this chaotic new era. Was Trump reviving Manifest Destiny with a twenty-first-century twist, or just distracting from the scandals that somehow did not disqualify him from office? Either way, it’s clear that we are living in the kind of timeline that makes future historians sigh deeply before pouring another drink. I won’t even mention Elon Musk’s Hitler salute. Numquid nihil sacrum est amplius?
Meanwhile, Europe’s right-wing movements are marching forward with unsettling confidence. In France, Italy, and Hungary, the far right has found fertile ground in economic uncertainty and social anxiety. Germany in particular is grappling with economic instability that is reminiscent of darker times. The ghosts of the Weimar Republic seem to linger: a chilling reminder of what can happen when economic despair and right-wing populism collide.
Let us not forget the wars. Ukraine, once just a line item in geopolitics, has become ground zero for a brutal and ongoing conflict. The images of bombed-out cities and displaced families are a stark reminder that, despite our advances in technology and diplomacy, humanity still excels at destruction. Sudan is no better, with its civil war dragging on and on, leaving millions of lives shattered. And Gaza? Well, if there’s a global leaderboard for unresolved conflict, the Israeli-Palestinian crisis would surely take home gold. It is a grim testament to our collective inability to find solutions that do not involve yet more violence.
Then there is China, flexing its muscles as an atomic superpower and setting its sights on Taiwan. It’s the geopolitical equivalent of a game of chicken, except the stakes involve nuclear weapons and global economic collapse. The world is watching, holding its breath, and quietly wondering if we should all start brushing up on our Mandarin. Meanwhile, the United States is pivoting its foreign policy focus to counter China’s rise, and the rest of the world is stuck in the middle, hoping they don’t get trampled in the process.
Of course, no discussion about the end of the world would be complete without mentioning global warming (again). We are past the point of politely asking people to recycle. The planet is heating up, ice caps are melting, and sea levels are rising. Natural disasters aren’t even waiting for hurricane season anymore; they’re just showing up like uninvited party crashers. And yet we are somehow still debating whether we should maybe, possibly, someday do something about it. It’s like arguing over whether to fix a leaky roof while water pours onto your head.
Then there is the cultural battlefield. The COVID-19 pandemic turned masks into political statements and social distancing into a litmus test for civic responsibility. Woke culture, with its earnest calls for accountability, has been met with an equally fervent backlash, canceling everything from controversial figures to poorly aged sitcoms and art by dead white men. Black Lives Matter ignited a global reckoning on racial injustice, while fake news turned truth into a moving target. These are not just cultural skirmishes; they are full-blown identity wars waged with hashtags and hot takes instead of guns, swords, and cannons.
But here’s the thing: this sense of doom is not new. Humans have always had a flair for apocalyptic thinking. It’s practically baked into our DNA. Ancient cultures saw eclipses as omens of destruction, and even the Enlightenment, with all its logic and reason, did not completely erase the fear that the universe might have it out for us. The Cold War brought us closer than ever to annihilation, while the Holocaust revealed the depths of humanity’s capacity for evil. Every era has its crises, its existential threats, its moments of wondering if this is the end.
So why do we keep doing this? Why does every generation believe it’s living in the end times? Part of it is egotism. We like to think of ourselves as special, even in catastrophe. If the world is ending, then surely we must be the main characters in this cosmic drama. Another part is fear: fear of change, fear of the unknown, fear of losing what little control we have. And let’s be honest, the news does not help. The 24/7 cycle of disasters, scandals, and crises is like a never-ending buffet of anxiety. You can’t even doom-scroll anymore without running out of battery.
But maybe it’s also a coping mechanism. If the world is ending, then at least we don’t have to worry about paying off our student loans or fixing that leaky faucet. There is a strange kind of comfort in catastrophizing, in imagining that all our problems will be wiped away in one grand, apocalyptic sweep. It isn’t healthy, but it is human.
So, is this really the end? Honestly, who knows? Humanity is resilient, if nothing else. We have survived plagues, wars, famines, even disco. And the 1980s. Maybe we’ll get through this too. Or maybe not. Either way, we will probably still be arguing about whether pineapple belongs on pizza as the asteroid hurtles toward us.
In the meantime, all we can do is our best: recycle that bottle, vote in that election, donate to that cause. Maybe it’s not enough, but it’s something. And if history has taught us anything, it is that we have a knack for stumbling through even the darkest of times. We’re like cockroaches with Wi-Fi: hard to kill and surprisingly resourceful. So let’s hang in there, if for no other reason than to give the future historians something to laugh about.
Willoughby M. Myles, a writer known for blending biting wit with bleak humor, is the author of such classics as “The Optimist’s Guide to the Apocalypse” and “Laughing Through the Collapse.” He lives somewhere between cynicism and hope, with a coffee addiction that fuels his doomsday musings.
Cover image: The fire on Sunset
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