Godot’s cousins await the end of the world.
They heard that he was coming. And it could be anytime. That it was just a matter of time.
So they wait.
And they wait without hope that something, or someone might suddenly appear to avoid it. And they just hope that, at least, it will be a spectacular, grandiose thing, worthy of the great human tragedy.
But that, too, is not certain.
It may well be that the end of the world never comes. It may well be that we all end first, after having made it uninhabitable for all known and existing forms of life.
It may well be that this ending has nothing grand. Let it be just a slow asphyxiation, a progressive languishing of all life. It may be that after the end there remains only one planet populated by ghosts.
Given this announced inevitability, Godot’s cousins prefer to wait seated. For them it is as if time does not exist. Perhaps they have not yet realized that every second that passes is one second less than the life they have left.
Eyes that don’t see, heart that doesn’t feel. What hurts them most is this wait. They don’t even move to try to see what’s going on, or even try to avoid the announced end. Anything. Wait.