I am the last one.
The last of my kind.
There is not a soul left on the planet that will be able to read my words. The last one that will be able to give my message to others.
I can’t dare to hope that one day someone will pick up this tablet, and be curious enough to try and turn it on. I hope that they crave knowledge to the point that they then dig through the files and find this note. Will my words be seen though, or will it just be odd symbols that escape all logic and attempts at deciphering?
I sigh as I let my head fall to the pillow I’d made from a tarp and some soil, the need for the familiar still with me long after the world ended 50 years ago.
There are no more teachers, no more computers, no more people to spread our language and our writing. I am the last of my kind. The world began with one man. It ends the same.
The English language dies with me.
I am no more.
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