I ’ve heard it said that the appeal of apocalypse films comes largely from two impulses.

One, the feeling that comes from watching someone go through impossibly horrible things makes all of your more mundane problems seem so much more manageable.

Two, apocalypse stories provide the thing that we’re subconsciously ingrained to believe completes the human experience.

An ending.

That came off much more grim than I intended. Allow me to backtrack.

Humans, for as long as anyone or any records can remember, have told stories to make sense of the world. Heck, telling stories is the only reason we have records that allow us to remember we told stories.

Before we knew anything about ozone or electrical charge, people could tell you why there were thunderstorms. Zeus was annoyed, or Thor was battling giants, or the Spirit of Thunder was banging drums with a chisel. Even today, some people hear the sky rumble and say, “Oh, God must be bowling again.”

It’s honestly an incredible gift, to me – we look at burning balls of gas in the endless void of the sky that are hundreds of times bigger than our planet, only small because they’re so far distant it would take us thousands of lifetimes to reach them, and what do we do? We turn them into nursery rhymes and teach them to children.

But I’ve backtracked too far. My point is that we build our lives and cultures and beliefs around stories, and we’re taught that the nature of stories is to have a beginning, middle, and end – just like a day, or a year, or a life.

Although that thinking tips over into chicken-and-egg very quickly – do we structure stories that way because we see that sequence everywhere, or do we reflect the way we structure stories onto real life?

Lives begin and end, yes, but it can be argued that those are the least interesting parts compared to everything in between. And the beautiful thing about days and years – not to mention human civilization – is that they tend to be of the “rinse-and-repeat” variety. The end of one is always followed by the beginning of another, although not according to apocalypse fiction.

Considering the apocalypse in question usually happens not long after the present day, there are other parallels to draw. The sense of a culmination, for example, as though we have reached our peak and have nowhere to go but ruin.

I’ve mentioned my feelings on evolution here before, but to recap – the idea that we as a species are advancing toward some grand ideal and have been for years is flat-out ridiculous. The point of evolution, for any species, is simply to adapt long enough to survive its current circumstances. My feelings toward the idea of advancing human civilization are much the same.

Real life isn’t a story, where all elements are meant to build into each other and further the narrative of progress. History works in cycles of advancement and regression, much like a pendulum swinging back and forth.

The world could, conceivably, collapse tomorrow, could fall into decay and wrack and ruin. But give it a year, or two, or a hundred, and humans will be back and kicking.

Or even better, don’t give the present an ending, no matter how glorious. Let it keep going, as it tends to do, twisting and turning onto new paths with a few switchbacks. And there are going to be switchbacks and turnarounds, no matter what you do. Humans are a disagreeable and contrary lot overall.

Still, there are so many new heights and depths we’ve yet to reach. Why the urge to wipe the slate clean and start over?

I will admit that I’ve never found apocalyptic stories particularly appealing.

— Nina Collay is a junior at Thornton Academy who can frequently be found listening to music, reading, wrestling with a heavy cello case, or poking at the keyboard of an uncooperative laptop.