Fine


It’s the nature of a beginning that it foretells an ending. But when the first scribbles are drawn on a snatched scrap of paper, the where, how and why of the conclusion are all still secret. And like all secrets they can be shocking when revealed.


Ciao ciao, he said as he left, with his long, exotic legs and his leather jacket and his lean all-black demeanour and his European cologne and his Australian accent that could only hint at the trauma of his life. And it was a beginning that stood toe-to-toe with a different ending and side-by-side with other beginnings, and they each occupied a spot that was purely theirs. Like all the beginnings and endings before them. And all the ones to come.


The price of falling in love many times is breaking up just as often. Because an ending is always part of a beginning. It’s the price you pay for the brand new European scent and the brand new deep brown eyes and the brand new life stories and the brand new friendships.

But the newness will always jostle with the losses. The loss of familiarity and comfort and experiences. Because surely there is nothing more intimate than a shared memory. And you wonder where they exist now, those memories, when the only other person you shared them with is gone.

So you leave it be, and you move into the newness as well as you can. Because this is the way the world ends this is the way the world ends this is the way the world ends. Not with a bang.

But a whimper.