I’m scared of endings. Of speeding toward the inexorable, unfathomable truth that what once gave me so much joy, could just cease to be. That the permanence in its loss will pervade all my living moments. That resounding emptiness.
In the same breath, could I say that the ending is form and function of the great madness of epics? That just like human life, it is precious only because it stops? That happiness exists because there is suffering?
An ending draws into orbit all the emotions. It follows little reason. Yet it patiently, and shockingly, breathes life into the dark recesses of my heart.
It stirs, warms, and is resonantly coloured with a full palette of sound.
It sweeps tales that transports space and transcends time. With breathtaking grace; with devastating silence.
It is fiercely lonely and bright. It is wondrously strange and beautiful. It is tempered evenly with love and sorrow.
So this fear of mine — it will stay. Because despite it all, it is a fearsome beauty beyond comprehension.
