Yes, it’s true. I’m attempting to write a 40,000 word novel over the next two weeks. In all honesty, the story is not going to be well edited, and the chapters are going to be fairly arbitrary- mostly just to keep structure. Reason: Why not? Motivation: I want to be a writer because its truly a passion and a love of mine. Goal: Get as far as I can, and not give up. Easy enough right? This first post being the exception, I’ll trying to post 1,000 to 2,000 word posts. Without further ado, let it begin:
Most endings go like this: “the end.” Like a yarn ball unraveled into one linear string, so goes most endings. Most beginnings start the same way: “the end.” In those cases, the string is an invisible tightrope over a cliff, and, yes, you get to wear a blindfold.
We are born into endings: half-lived vacancies like set-pieces on a darkened stage, derelict destinies, and far too much hope. Most know themselves best marching in subway stations, reading expressions off the faces of strangers. It reminds them of mirrors—rather, of the illusionist’s mirrors reflecting misshapen fantasies, measuring false dimensions. They see some idle part of themselves in the eyes of passerby’s—some life they’ve felt they’ve lived and left behind—cherished in small eyelash beats forever glancing and receding.
Moments like these are reminiscent of those times alone, staring into the soft-spoken darkness from a foreign bed, feasting on the familiar shades of night, and sleeping only to awake not knowing where you are. We are no strangers to being strangers; if you’ve ever lied to yourself, you’d understand. Life is forever a game of understanding ourselves, despite never knowing who we are. Are we the endings? Are we the half-formed silhouettes looking in?
We wonder because the endings we are born into are the abstractions of our fate. A fate vast and uncertain. A fate of many endings, and so while we are born into these projections—these false potentials of our existence—we find that while most endings and beginnings were always lived to end, only some of us choose not to live them.
He enjoyed measuring life through goodbyes. The understated qualities of what someone meant to him—and him to them—always had a peculiar way of being realized through goodbyes. There was the stoic smile, quick wave, and passing remark that said, “Hey, I’ve known you, and you’ve known me. Let’s never know each other again.” There was the classic head nod that said, “You don’t deserve my words, but good luck anyways.” His personal favorite was the “let’s keep in contact” goodbye, which was the equivalent of saying “when the guilt builds up enough, I’ll reach out to you.”