Zombie survivor

July 14, 43 days after the Pandemic It is almost an obligation of mine to wake up with the sun questioning what the world would be like without the birth of the plague. I dedicate a few minutes of each day to remember my old companions of my former life, especially now, when I am on my last legs, and I can say with joy that I will leave in grace and not in sorrow as they left me. And now I come across this lengthy and dubious text, which, despite every one of its faults; I have already read it from alpha to omega. And it never ceases to amaze me, as it came to me at the most indicated moment, when I am about to cross the river with the ferryman and return the time I have borrowed. And it is that, although his writing is probably already dead, he has become my friend. For it is he who has been with me now that I am saying goodbye, and I have been able to empathize with him to perfection, for now, I realize that his misfortunes are also mine and those of anyone who is left alive. And lately, I keep thinking about everything we have lost. And not just the millions of souls who fell into misfortune with the disease, but the ideas they left behind. There will no longer be anyone who knows what Beethoven, Mozart, Paganini, Pieaf, Presley, McCartney, Mercury, and countless others sound like. There will be no human being left, who admired the works of Michelangelo, Rembrandt, Delacroix, Picasso, Van Gogh, Haring, to say a few. Oh, and those beauties that were reproduced on film and then in digital, what the Lumiere, Hitchcock, Tarantino, Spielberg, Burton gave us... all that, more than two thousand years of history and human culture that will sink in the dark waters of the ocean of time. So I leave at your disposal, this, the last work of the past epoch Before the Pandemic, or maybe the first, of the after. I don't know. In any case, I consider it of great literary importance because its author, through his not very varied vocabulary, will take you on an incredible journey through time: Of when the green trees and red roses dried up and stopped blooming for anyone; when the skies were dyed red and the clouds covered the sun that was already burning, instead of blessing the day; when the last rainbow shone as a consolation for a child who had lost his mother; when people stopped shaking hands and acting like human beings; when this world stopped being wonderful. And it breaks my heart to think that this started long before the plague. Maybe they were right, we deserved it. An uncertain future, a foggy road, is all I see. So I leave you this journal that I took from a young man who had died at the hands of another man, who surely, had taken it from someone else before and so I'm pretty sure you'll want to take it from me. Don't. I give it to you. May it remind you of who we are, of our origins. May it guide you on this dark path our species travel. May it whisper to you what we are capable of, may it help you maintain as much morale as possible.  As long as you live, for you will die and someone else will take it from you. We were seven billion, now we are a few thousand. I don't hold out much hope that we can go back to what we once were. But I ask you to keep the faith that I have already lost, and that the moment you are here, let this writing help you build a better future for the few who are left at the end. And if that is our destiny, extinction, and absolute oblivion; do not fear, I ask you, because that is not synonymous with the end of everything; remember it as I do: watching the diamonds in the heights, distant and almost eternal, oblivious to all our suffering; even when on Earth the last human dies, the stars will continue to shine.