The end of the world as we know it, or of a lifestyle, or of a life, or of a love affair, in descending grandeur, will have repercussions.

Those who study eschatology tend to focus on the grand vision so that they'll attract a mass audience. The end of a love affair, unless visualized by James Cameron with a ship-sized mini-apocalypse to accompany it, will be remembered by only a few.

I've noticed quite a few of the young obsessed with eschatology using the opportunity to amass knowledge in this field.

They may have confused science with good stories. What they truly crave is a narrative that sensually bombards them, but they end up in a maze of pseudo-science that confounds them cerebrally.

They want to rise above the mundane by searching for intelligence not consecrated by textbooks. But they are drawn to tall tales designed by those even less adequate in the pantheon of knowledge.

The prognosis of such an event does have its upside, though. It makes people pause to think of things that really matter to them, such as family and friends and the so-called "bucket list".

Suddenly, a property within the Fifth Ring Road or a vehicle license does not seem that important. It is similar to the aftermath of a huge natural disaster when people take a sharp turn to the spiritual. But judging from the relentless rise of real estate prices in recent weeks, few took the Mayan prophecy seriously.

The carnival mood as exhibited in China and elsewhere speaks less of gallows humor than an urge to squeeze fun out of a humdrum existence.

Hey, if we're all going to perish tomorrow, why not do what really makes us happy?

The gawky teenager in the Hollywood movie Independence Day uses that excuse to get sex from his date, and most of "the prepared" this time are engaged in variations of that tactic - to gorge on a calorie-rich last supper, or to burst out in songs that would scare away all other karaoke patrons. Instead of truth-or-dare, it evolves into a die-or-dare game, for which the ordinarily timid can embark on the boldly unconventional they can explain away the next day.

Doomsday mania is probably good for the service industry and bad for moving merchandise. Otherwise, the millions of online stores would turn every doomsday foretold into a massive on-sale holiday. Well, someone in China did build a 5-million-yuan ark and received 26 orders. I bet nobody wired money to him. They may have transferred ghost money because, with much of the world obliterated, hell notes would be more valid, right?

And instead of today's edition of China Daily, they may be reading a survival guide that warns of the dangers of melting snowcaps or rising salt water. They thought they could go on adventure like Pi in the Ang Lee movie, but they're more likely obliterated like the contestants in television reality shows.

Contact the writer at raymondzhou@chinadaily.com.cn.

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