Sometimes I feel like I’m stuck in the period at the end of infinity’s most excruciatingly painful sentence. You know, the one it took 10 monkeys locked in a room 10 thousand years to write. After that sentence everything is so final. Nothing can ever be taken back. But I don’t know what it is I gave up so I don’t know if you want it back or not. I am not alone inside it though. The end of the world is in there with me. It is becoming me. Everything I do is the end. Everything I say is the end. Everything I think and feel. I may not be God but I sure am giving him a real run for his money. I realize that death is not the end. That destruction is still a creative force. Despite my desire to do otherwise though it is still the only type I can seem to muster inside there. With the world in ruin around my feet I realize that of all the insults I’ve egregiously committed those scars self inflicted are both the most painful and numerous.
Standing in defeat, the purveyor of such utterly disdainful destruction, the sad truth envelopes me. That I am not the beginning of a new hopeful line but instead the finality of that demoralizing harsh one.
