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felicitygsx-post from tumblr, 2018-feb-3
The end is the beginning. Cliche, so very cliche, and yet true in this case. Something about the silence and finality of an end echos the quiet and wet warmth of birth, before you know anything. You have to feel as if you know nothing again to start over.
The end is the beginning. Cliche, so very cliche, and yet true in this case. Something about the silence and finality of an end echos the quiet and wet warmth of birth, before you know anything. You have to feel as if you know nothing again to start over.
Which is a lot of really romantic and poetic drivel that all boils down to this:
She had nothing left except some noodles in the cupboard and some frozen catfish in the freezer. No money, no friends, a big helping of no hope. A bottle of pills and a few shots of vodka later, she had no sleep, either, struggling to stay awake into the late hours of the evening, killing time one tick at a time.
That’s a beginning as much as it is an end.
Beginnings don’t always start with a scream. Sometimes, there’s not even a sigh.