After about four months of exhausting over commas, pulling hairs over sentence structure, and deleting until satisfaction, it is finally over. All of it. I can go to sleep. I can rest. This – this – is the end.
So I write, “the end.”
I write again, “The end.”
It doesn’t feel like it.
It was as though those two words, the conciliatory forces of all history ever written, were a lie. Perhaps it is because there is no contentment in an ending, only a brief pause. Each time I attempt to finish, a wave of words rifle off my tongue that equally wish for their time to grace the blank page. What do they wish to say? I am not quite sure. No one ever is. Only after we speak, do we ever know what is said. Before then, nothing matters.
Perhaps it is because an ending is a misnomer. Nothing ever ends, and nothing ever begins. Both are really two in the same. A race does not end on the finish line, for there are steps that must be taken after. All fairytales continue on after the princess finds her prince, or they lived happily ever after, or the angel gets its wings. This is how things go, and continue to go.
Maybe, though, there does exist an ending: death. When life flashes its final signal, and breaths become an exasperating struggle, maybe there is truly an ending of the only beginning: life.
Many would argue against such a supposition. Buddhists would hum the mantra of reincarnation. Christians would crusade about while discussing the Kingdom of Heaven that awaits. Islamists, Jews, Sikhs, Norse, Hindu, Egyptians, Spiritists, Wiccans, Methodists, and so on ad nauseum, would all chime in too, “Death is not an ending, but a beginning.” To them, in death, life; in life, death. The difference are a few syllables.
Beyond the worldwide and historical ideas of the hereafter, this idea may even stretch further. The light at the end of the tunnel, which often accompanies death like a Grim Reaper, may just be another step of life. What if that light is the coming again into life? As one enters the light during death, they are leaving the darkness of life, and perhaps, coming out of a woman’s womb again only to live again.
To such questions, despite the sonorous plea of many believers, there are no answers. Life can be an ending, and it can be a beginning. By writing here, I am not attempting to answer such questions. Instead I am explaining that although I dab my sentences with period in a final thought, they long for other words to follow them. They are never complete. Never perfect. Never the end.
So I write, “The end.”
Only to begin again.