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I can’t stop myself from thinking about THE END. Not the end of anything in particular, and not the end of all ends, but just the end of some things that do indeed end.
Even if its’ not sad, even if you want to go, it’s a little hard to leave some places. Most places. Even if the reason you’re leaving is because there’s a puddle of hot tears that’s still pooled beneath that bed. Or even if you are saying sianara to that class which may cause premature gray hairs. When The End rings your doorbell and stands there waiting, it’s a little hard to put on your flip flops and casually walk out the door with him, isn’t it?
It’s because I want to make sure that all the little pieces resonate inside me. That when I leave the leaky fridges or the well-worn pencils, they still buzz around, making up my molecules. That The End isn’t just a benchmark but a culmination. That when The End does ring my doorbell, he reaches out to shake my hand and notices that I didn’t just live, but I lived until life got stuck under my fingernails.
