My childhood friends rest in suspended animation, forever young, in an unspoiled corner of my imagination. They’ve been unwillingly trapped there since I last saw them almost 20 years ago. Meanwhile, I’ve been busy growing old, watching the gap between us widen as I outlive my peers until they are young enough to be my own children.
My mind is a museum like any other; a cabinet of preserved curiosity, a broken record of what once was. We look over the yellowing bones, dusty artifacts and moth-bitten exhibits, and wonder whether the museums of the future will contain even smaller, painstakingly reconstructed versions of other museums that house ancient books whose pages display a pageant of amber insects on parade across the ages.
We stockpile wild-life in reservations until it is ripe for preservation.
The museum is civilisation’s attempt at achieving collective immortality, through memetic inheritance and hand-me-down taxidermy.
Outside, life goes on, while our ancestors are forced to play the dim-witted hunter-gather role for the remainder of eternity, wearing clothes no one would be caught dead in.