Auld Lang Syne

December 31, 2021

To whomever finds this letter: My legal name is Skye Willow Harvey. My parents named me Skye, to remind me that I am limitless, and Willow to encourage me to bend with life's changes rather than break.

Despite their good intentions, at the age of thirty-three, I am still known by family, friends, neighbours, and even my boss, as Lilly. It's actually short for Lilly Logical. That was my childhood nickname; bestowed upon me - completely without irony - some three decades ago by my loving father.

When pressed by their closest friends and relatives, my parents reluctantly admited that unlike normal kids I never had an imaginary friend...

Never enjoyed fairytales...

Always preferred fact over fiction...

Others considered me to be an odd and unusually down to earth child. A stoic teenager. And a mature, sensible young adult. Consequently my aging hippy parents never quite knew how to relate to me. Still, they always loved me. And for the record, I always loved them, too.

The reason I'm recounting my personal history in this essay is to try to express how confused I am by the physical sensation in my lower abdomen which seems to be directly related to the strange thoughts of vague foreboding I'm experiencing.

Actually, it's not a case thinking as much as feeling.

Literally in my gut.

A gut feeling? Is this what people talk about?

Yes, that is a rhetorical question. I'm just trying to apply logic in order to intellectually understand this strange new experience.

Perhaps this doom-and-gloom sensation is the result of two years of the pandemic finally taking a toll on my mental health? Until this morning - when I woke before dawn with fear twisting in my stomach - I'd prided myself on how well I have coped with the threat of COVID-19 and all the life changes it has inflicted upon the world. Although to be fair to everyone else, being in lock down wasn't a major challenge for me; I have exclusively worked from home for years. And most of my social interaction occurs online anyway.

But I digress...

The fear that roused me from my deep sleep on this last day of 2021 was so foreign and so intense, at first light I left the security of my apartment and braved the rush hour traffic to buy this notebook and pen - and the fireproof box to hold it - in case my fears come to pass. For some reason I feel the need to leave something behind. Some proof that I lived, in case all my work (online and on computer hardware) becomes inaccessible in an instant.

But enough of the vague musing.

The fact is that I am expecting a catastrophe the likes of which this world has never seen before. I feel it will take the form of either massive solar flares, or an unprecedented attack unleashed one of the superpowers in the form of an electromagnetic pulse weapon.

Note: I'm an IT expert, not an astrophysicist or military strategist. And yet I cannot shake this premonition of worldwide disaster.

A worldwide collapse of all computer and electronic and electrical devices will bring humanity to its collective knees.

No communication. (No internet. No phone service. No TV.)

No transport. (No motorised transportation, electrical or fuel powered.)

No running water.

No electricity.

Which in the longer term means that Sydney - a city of almost five and a half million people - will left without sanitation; without deliveries to supermarkets; without garbage collections; without official news. No ability to summon police or other emergency services. Everything a major city relies upon to remain civilised could be gone in a heartbeat.

So call me a coward - but I took a break from writing for a few hours...

First to relax the cramp in my hand from writing this with pen and paper; things I haven't used since primary school.

Then I indulged in time to cry.

Lastly I called my parents, then friends, then neighbours to try and warn them. But after the reception I recieved from them - ranging from outright laughter to genuine anger - I stopped short of calling the media, or military, or even posting on Twitter.

If I have any chance of surviving whatever is coming, I need to be free to run; I can't afford to be locked up in a psychiatric hospital, or in custody as a national security threat. Instead, I need to take practical steps to save what's left of my sanity.

1) I'm going to the bank to get cash.

2) I'm going back to the camping store to get supplies: sleeping bag, tent, water storage containers, candles, canned food, soap, hand sanitiser. What else will fit in my car?

Back soon.

I began writing this ... record? ... just over 12 hours ago. It's obvious, even to me, that my mental state has deteriorated since I woke up this morning.

Am I experiencing a psychotic break? Computers are my field - not human psychology.

The more I prepare for looming disaster, the worse the feeling of emotional and physical distress becomes. I thought that by taking practical steps I'd feel better. Now, as night approaches, I'm wondering if I should stay in my home, or literally head for the hills? I've never been camping in my life. If I head away from the city and towards the Blue Mountains - or even further west - will I be safer?

Will I be safe at all?

I don't know where to find water that's safe to drink, or long-term shelter to protect me from dangerous animals.

Human beings are probably the biggest threat, if I'm being brutally honest. I'm not good at relating to most people at the best of times...

I took another break from writing to call my parents. Again. I hoped Dad would comfort me; instead he asked when I turned into a conspiracy theory nutter.

The time has come to commit to my plan. I will place this notebook in the fireproof box I bought this morning and leave it in my apartment. If I believed in a Divine Entity I would pray. Perhaps I will anyway. My father once told me there are no atheists in a foxhole. That never really made sense to me until now...

Being out on my tiny balcony, trying to formulate a suitably respectful prayer, (just in case), I found myself trying to imagine my home without the noise and vibration of trains rumbling past thirty times a day. Tried to imagine the darkness if all the lights suddenly went out. Tried to imagine the panic setting in when people realised the extent of the disaster and that no-one was coming to help.

Time to leave. Head west. It's the safest option.

I pray that the worst that will happen is my missing the fireworks at midnight, and needing to call family and friends to apologise tomorrow.

Time will tell.

Regards,

Skye "Lilly" Harvey.

***

There was a small brass plaque just below the smooth granite slab, which had been set into the stone wall of the newly built town hall. It stated:

The original version the historical document engraved above was discovered in the ruins of Old Sydney, in the year 2133 CE. One hundred and eleven years after The End.

The personal account was written by Skye "Lilly" Harvey.

No other information is known about the author.

This artefact was donated to the citizens of New Sydney by Mayor Lee Tregear on 01/01/2137

***

Despite the heat, the master stonemason had once again stopped in front of the new town hall building he had designed and built, to admire his work.

His pride was justified.

He and his team had done a magnificent job. People were saying the building would stand for a thousand years.

The pale stone glowed like a living being and the windows mirrored the sunset. For once he was in no rush to get home; the moon was almost full so there would be plenty of light to guide his way.

The stonemason slowly ran one calloused hand across the words he had engraved on the granite slab the Mayor had mysteriously obtained. The foundation plaque of the new town hall had probably cost more than the stonemason made in a year. And because he was a highly respected and skilled tradesman, he was far wealthier than any mere politician.

Still, how the Mayor paid for the plaque was the least important question...

The tactile sensation evoked memories of many hours of painstaking labour. After decades spent perfecting his trade, the result was flawless. It was unfortunate the document - so carefully copied - would remain a source of confusion for most people.

How weak was the writer if simply holding a pen caused pain in her hand?

Who knew what a computer or a train or a supermarket was?

The few people who had survived The End had been either too young or too traumatised to explain what had taken place.

As a small child, the stonemason's father had told him that Old Sydney was a mighty city of millions. At the time that number was inconceivable and he had wondered why his father had lied; now it seemed he owed his ancestor an apology. And now that the stonemason had children and grandchildren of his own, he took pride in his role as an elder of New Sydney. With the most recent arrival of his neighbours' healthy baby girl, his hometown had grown into a massive city of 14, 054 people.

And yet, the stonemason couldn't quite shake the odd feeling that Lilly's final words would remain as much of an enigma as the woman herself ... and that both would haunt his dreams for the rest of his life.