I feel like I’m always looking for an ending, something concrete and unwaivering that time won’t change. I want to be able to briskly swipe my hands together as if you say “well thats that” and assuredly close the book and place it’s bindings on the shelf without a second thought. But long after the book is put away, my mind still wanders back to the vivid words that paint the pictures; I carry it on with me, refer back to it when a moment in space sparks a reminder of something that still lives inside me. All of the starting and ending parts fade away. The new becomes intertwined with the old.

Moments intertwined together, times are blurred and every ending becomes a jump off for something entirely new. I never forgot the previous chapters or characters because without them there is no substance of meaningful foundation for those yet to come.
Sometimes when I dream moments return to me as if to tell me that though they have passed and I have moved on they are still as much a part of who I am and will always be. A person is made up of many moments and in the end these moments are one’s truth.