The Attic

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An after-reckoning about how it shook out.

Supposition, hypothetical, considering everything, etc.

What happened?

This is how we create a history, as passed from lip to ear. The birth of rumor, legend, long nights around a fire while the moon rises and the log burns to embers.

The quickest way to spread information: telegraph, telephone, tell a secret.

The world came apart.

That may not be true. It may only have been the country. Or the continent.

The cavalry did not arrive. No assistance was forthcoming. Perhaps that means something?

I doubt it.

For a long time the disintegration was recorded. Data was downloaded and consumed. The unraveling was spectator sport.

There was probably a tipping point. One last margin of error, a hair’s breadth, a held breath, right before the moment of no return, an accumulation of trouble, enough to make us stand still, to look around at each other and say we should change this.

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