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December Twenty-First, TwentyTwelve

Twenty-twelve. It is the year of my eighteenth birthday, when I am finally legally classed as mature - about time. I sit here writing with a MENSA score of 174 attained by just one percent of the population of the world, deducing and revealing and thinking about the greatest problems in the universe until they are revealed to the bone.... I had worked out the physics of time travel, paradoxial trips, infinite segregated and interlinked universes functioning simultaneously together and apart on the torus of the seven dimensions of reality. Quantum physics discovered at fifteen were dissolved into memory in a week. And yet I am to die.
The world ends in the year twenty-twelve, while the general - despicably stupid - public wander on, supporting the failure that will be the London Olympic games when England is finally revealed as the most terribly ran country in the world - a system that only works because people think it does, while deep inside it is fundamentally crippled and rotted by the infested pieces that make up its entirety. Power should not be given; and truly, it is not. It cannot. No person on this earth has power over one; they only have the disillusionment of fear. It's a state of fear. The imagined power we give to political leaders - who are only human - the lies we tell ourselves that somehow, for some reason, these people have a higher authority to justify punishment.

Free will. Also a lie? No. The only truth in the universe in a spiral of lies. It is also the greatest lie in the Reality. We have free will. We do not have free will. We sit and stand and go and stay and rest and talk and play... Could, should, would... and Did. Did is the only word that matters. What we do is how we define ourselves. We have the capabilities to beat down a brick wall with our fists; and yet, in the entire population of our laughable species, not one of us has done so. We could have. Perhaps we should have. And in certain situations, we would have. But none of us have ever done so.
What we do pales in comparison to the ultimate power we have inside our minds; a flab of matter that allows us to take utter control of anything we would wish to and yet we do not. Do. We could, we should, we would... we Don't.

Twenty-twelve, my friends. Yellowstone. Even the actuality of the tangent graph of global average temperature is abused to make us fear - global warming, they call it. I call it seasonal shift. In summer, it is raised, and in winter, it falls. And just like we have a summer and a winter for each year that passes little do the despicable 'public' know that we have a summer and a winter for the centuries that flick by in the ultimate infinity of Reality. The last down was completed in what we call the nineteenth century; it has rose ever since, and it shall fall in twenty-forty. We, however, will not be alive, thanks to the destruction that occurs on December the twenty-first, twenty-twelve.

Yellowstone supervolcano. Global dimming. Nuclear fallout.
I am to die on my eighteenth birthday.
And due to a conveniently-timed intervention by Nature, so do we all.

(Sucks to be you.)

(Sucks to be me.)