The End
I wonder how endings could be so beautiful yet so difficult at the same time. I donít quite understand but most often than not, endings bring more than a tinge of wistfulness in me. Of yearning, of longing. Nostalgia over the emotions, the thoughts, the atmosphere, the whole of the experience that I had, that I felt, before it arrived at the fate that everything is always destined for: its end. I always ponder at the emotions it conjures in me: the longing for a fantasy too surreal to exist.

Are there always happily-ever-afters?

Maybe in the deepest corners of reality there are but, are they even close to the happily-ever-afters that we find in most booksí endings? Was there any way we could make that possible? Happily-ever-afters that seem not to end, ever? As if there isnít an ounce of imperfection at all? ÖThatís what most books seem to imply. Happy endings last forever and ever and ever, never ending. Ironic though that happily-ever-afters are, most usually than not, found at endings; endings of stories that are said to be just beginnings.. What I meant was that happiness and perfection seem to start only at the end. Ironic indeed. Perhaps that is why people would say that every beginning is always an ending. Because the end of sadness is the beginning of happiness and the end of happiness is the beginning of sadness. Reversed or otherwise, it means nothing but the same thing: a continuous cycle of beginnings and endings; never ending once again.

But why do things have to last so temporarily? Why does happiness have to end? Why? To realize there is also sadness? That such a feeling as sadness exists? Why canít we go on being happy? Why does happiness come to an end? Why canít it be like fairytales where at the end, all the suffering, all the pain, all the conflict, become things of the past, not to be remembered but forgotten forever? Maybe that brings about the longing; the longing for the experience you have felt during the multitude of loops and slides on that roller coaster ride of emotions you were on when you were going through the story, the fairytale. The ups and downs of it that stirs up a magical feeling; the feeling that maybe, even just in the depths of this too realistic world, magic exists.

I know that to my reader, I may not make any sense here for only I could do that. Iím the only one who knows the reason beyond my words. You could guess but hopefully you wouldnít get it quite rightÖthese words were written with shallow reasons thus only the surface was delivered.

Iím scared, scared of writing like this, of sharing this with those who are willing enough to read. The whole of this written piece is only part of the workings of my mind; workings that I most often than not reserve for my own judgment Ėbecause this is how I see the world. Iím too much of a coward to hear othersí. I doubt that Iíd even have the courage to make more than two people read it. Thatís counting me one so that makes YOU the second person. I figure Iím still afraid of othersí judgment thatís why I more or less keep my thoughts to myself. They are far too unusual; not something that most people would talk or think about. That makes one of us a freak. Lol.

How could I find humor in this? When Iím assessing the deeper emotions of my mind? Of myÖheart? I would say that Iím overreacting, exaggerating but how could I not? When the force of the emotion I am trying to repress is so intense?

This is one of the rare moments when I would bravely face the emotion set before me, try to do something about it Ėlike write it down- instead of trying to keep it at bay, seeming oblivious to the longing it arises, acting like it doesnít exist while still subtly aware that itís lying there somewhere, hiding enough for me not to be ruled by it but visible enough for me to acknowledge its presence.

Amazing how such a hobby as reading could do this to me (told you it was shallow; donít say I didnít warn ya). Bet you didnít expect for this written piece to arrive to this eh? Bet you expected something much deeper though you canít quite put your finger on it? Well, it isnít exactly a secret now that Iíve let my guard down and exposed the real reason, the shallow one. Thatís the reason for my cowardice; the fear that you would think of me as someone who is shallow. But thatís who I am I guess though Iím scared to admit it even to myself. But I decided to let my voice be heardÖeven for just a few days (thatís how long this post would last or maybe shorter or longer Ėunless I forget to delete it). Thereís no turning back now. All I have to do is click Ďsave&publishí and watch as the whole world reads about my shallowness. Ėand thatís what I meant about exaggerating.