Endings are so finite, so cold and so absolute. Each fleeting moment that brings me closer to the end takes more out of my lungs; it marks a point of no return. Each transition is a shut door, each word a step closer to the Rubicon. I am not ready to cross it, never will be.
And yet, all we are taught is to wrap it up in silk ribbons, to leave our audience with something to ponder on. How do I end a story with more to tell, a narrative with frayed edges. How do I end a friendship with spilling memories, a relationship with loose ends. How do I end a childhood, dripping with nostalgia, and a war with massive casualties. Casualties that ensue in cutting parts of me right to the bandage.
I have turned people into metaphors, calling them everything – from hurricanes to drugs. All of this, only to deceive myself into believing that we weren’t done yet. I have been hurt, and I have hurt, hoping to save myself from another abrupt ending – another cliffhanger, another push down the hill.
But I am done. I am not going to have people rummaging between my broken ribs, searching for hand-me-down hearts. My ribs are made of leftover chalk and my heart is already ashes. It is time that I save whatever is left of me. I am not a work of art. I am too complicated to be confined in some frame or a shoddy piece of paper. I am chaotic and too far gone to be contained. Let me go.
I hope you aren’t waiting here, to hear me say that I will be waiting for you. Because I won’t. I’d rather go somewhere else, smelling of everything safe and happy, telling myself not to get attached to people. I’d rather have a new beginning.