A poem by Marisa Coltabaugh
This existence,
this reality,
is nothing more
than a simulation.
There is no hero to the story.
We’re all non-player characters
in a video game
being played by
no one
up above.
The game has already been run
through several iterations.
There are still glitches in the program.
A consequence of there being
no one
to fix them.
System failures,
bugs,
runs that end too abruptly.
This run,
this reality,
is a
New Game.
There’s never a Saved Game.
One theory I have
is that we have lived
this life before,
a hundred times.
Each run,
we make a single different decision
and we have to play it through
to the end,
wherever it leads.
Some runs,
we never come to exist
at all.
Other runs,
we make poor choices;
so many that
we would not recognize ourselves.
And in fewest of runs,
we are known
for our greatest deeds.
And we just keep
reliving this life
through all the possibilities.
Maybe there is
other life out there
and
maybe,
there’s not.
Maybe humanity will conquer the cosmos
and thrive for untold millennia more.
I wish I could be there to see it,
and yet,
maybe it’s better
that I don’t.
By the time
the cosmos cave in
on itself,
Humanity,
in every run,
will have been extinguished
long before
The End.
