The hardest fact of life is the knowledge that every beginning eventually has an ending.
It has been a conscious decision to start each friendship; each relationship–each surprised hello with the same surprised goodbye.
It has been a conscious decision to start the morning, knowing that there will be a night.
The thesis of my life was born from the idea that if I leave someone with something more than I found them… each goodbye would not really be an ending–just another start I could not finish.
My coping mechanism was somehow lodged in the safety of the infinite beginnings I could no longer quantify. My coping mechanism was the selfish ideology that the pain is a necessary means to polarize the pleasure.
Everything is an excuse.
I end things because I can’t handle starting them. I start things because I can’t handle not being able to leave them.
I wonder if eventually there will be something that I can’t seem to finish; someone I can’t seem to stop or sabotage or find the need to polarize.
I wonder if it’s because I am too weak to handle the compounding story. Too weak to handle an actual, heart-wrenching, life-shattering climax.
I don’t want to know how I am with the possibility of breaking again. Of finding myself without a multitude of beginnings.
Of finding myself with a singular finale.
Of finding if I am strong enough to live my life not spread across pages of books I can’t remember the covers of.