What if you could write a new ending for yourself?
I want to go back, to take it all back, to start over, but it is too late. This is my ending. I have known it all along, the darkness, the solitude, the words in my head. It is not as I imagined, and exactly as I imagined. Where does fiction end, and truth begin. Is this my pen, or reality? I have lost track. I have lost myself in the sea, in the river, in the moon, in all the watery images of life that fold over my head like fabric.
When I finally let go and sink, I find, beneath the chaos, that the silence is astounding, it is a relief, and I wonder then, if I have been entirely wrong.
This, I realize, might actually be the beginning.
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