Even the Earth Will Perish and the Universe Give Way
I don’t know what to say. I am writing this, to you, the one who reads me, and I’ve come empty-handed. I haven’t made a case for myself, and I won’t attempt to. I am confessing: I know nothing. However, it is impossible to ignore what has peered through my window and pounded at my door. The loneliness of winter has arrived, and it carries a trait that is unheard of for anyone but me. I’ve tried to describe it, but in routine time I’ve been met with twisted faces and the backs of heads. Some people aren’t built happy. However, in my short time on Earth, I’ve found that many are unable to declare themselves so. Thus reigns before us the practice of cheer; It is being thankful for every gift or being sent to your room. It is tv movie holiday specials or familial contempt. It is commercially minded music or the pitfalls of being together in unconvincing conversation. Now more than any other time of the year, our participation is called for, expected, and required. To leave tradition is to go out of line. It is a cardinal sin. It is the sign of disorder. So to those around me, my quirks are left uncredited, and my joy is a known performance act. But we don’t talk about that.
I am writing to tell you of the Sufjan Stevens song “Even the Earth Will Perish and the Universe Give Way,” I am writing to tell you of its worth and how it fell into my peripheral vision, of how it wedged its way between the space that is and the space that wants to be, of how its sonic has driven me up the wall, and with anticipation, I draft this write-up in my sleep. I am here to tell you that I am burdened with the angst of middle age despite only being half-way through my teen years. I am marked by catastrophe; the body counts, the climate reports, premature movie release lists, fast-food twitter clapbacks, governmental incompetence, fast fashion, intensive factory farming, zoonotic diseases, severe weather destruction, police states, fascism, neoliberalism, identity politics, late-night talk show hosts, Amazon, liberal kitsch, content houses, crystal healing tutorials, the decline of punk, patriarchal judgments, Y2K trends, inevitable Star Wars programs, remakes and reboots, streaming services, facetune and photoshop, influencers and wannabe influencers, intergenerational trauma, tumblr discourse, outlet malls, peer rejection, etc. etc. etc.
It is written all over my face. The world is in motion, yet nothing seems to be changing for the better. In my year, I should not ache and understand this song so intimately. I find fault in American traditionalism. It is clear to me that [most] tradition needs to fade away and that modernity has failed us. And to those who hold tightly to their stockings and wrapping paper--what world would exist to have such things when the Earth has become unlivable and the universe unwilling to hold us? Perhaps this is just a case of teenage solipsism, but I cannot help but feel that I am right about all of this. I feel I am in a play, running rampant around the stage, as everyone adlibs and skews away from the perfectly written script. How can things get any more obvious? Here lies the greatest problem of all: the nexus of environmental devastation and human self-centeredness. (Now, in spite of all I’ve said, this song ends with a brief flurry of wistfulness and hope; a section of bells chiming and piano trilling, so I will attempt to replicate the scene, wishing to hear that as something further than a far off cosmic dream:)
As the year comes to a close, I look to what has been done to me and by me. I then look inward and cultivate compassion for what has left me in grief. This year for Christmas, I am asking for an image of myself walking on avenues of good fortune, my spirit bright, my heart questioning the validity of this dream-like world, but trusting it nevertheless. I wish to see my friends to give them love in person rather than attempting to comfort them through telepathic rituals and spells of warmth and safety. Whatever happens beyond this writing, I will allow myself to dive into my imagination and dig wells of light to provide solace as we live in the midst of this unreality. Perhaps, this isn’t avoidance. Perhaps solutionaries were guided by their creativity before responding to the outstretched hand of god. Perhaps I am calling for a lot, but I give a lot. After the tumultuous throes of this year, I think that’s the gift we need to give ourselves. I don’t want to pretend that we went through something better than this; I want things to change. And maybe that change starts with forgoing our idea of perfect normalcy in the realm of a traditional Christmas celebration.
Kaycie is an amateur creator based in Pennsylvania. She daydreams of going to college in New York to pursue a career in writing and filmmaking. She finds inspiration in the cosmic narratives of her own life as well as the ones found in music, literature, and movies. You can stay up to date with her by following her new accounts on Tumblr and Instagram.