It was never about the ending. Mostly about the story.
This was just another story in the book.
There was always the risk that the journey this story takes would not be sufficient or satisfying; I would feel an emptiness for the story could have offered more. Yet, it didn’t. Who is to judge if it was too early or too late in the picture.
Truth be told, the story could be changed or tweaked a little to fulfill my wishes. Or it could be damaged entirely so I don’t know it anymore.
The story never happens in vacuum. It sets off ripples and sometimes even waves.
Some stories, however, when they end leave the waters calm and unchanged. I never see signs of them again and that knowledge is somehow soothing.
I never truly know which story will go which way. Till the story pours out of every inch of me and I then attempt to shape it. Sometimes, I don’t and it shapes me, shakes me to my very core.
Every story is not just written into my life. It is written onto my body, my thoughts, my dreams. Especially my hopes for what stories look like, feel like and taste like.