El Fin

Sunshine, peach cigars, Chopin Preludes and Nocturnes, red-winged blackbirds, mauve sky in the gloaming, a story of an ending, but never a beginning.

Why can’t I make up stories about the beginnings of relationships? I tried, but it felt fake. The ending I can picture perfectly. I am always thinking about endings. This will not end well. Why do something when you know it will not end well. Why can’t I see beginnings? What were their names in my head ? Jane, the friend in Vancouver. Sarah – the one who would be everything I couldn’t be. Maybe because it’s a recurring theme – a story that has a myriad beginnings but always the same ending.