End In Ink

The Story's Tale

How funny it is, yet so heartbreaking to know. I wish I knew the whole story in advance. I did so very well, I tried, but I ignored it. My perception had blinded me; lost, I was wholly withdrawn and vulnerable, forever ignorant to its separate plot and focused solely on me.

My story tells a new but old, familiar tale. My own accord, it's always been just about me. I'm living each day by dawn and dusk, somehow always failing to see the plot in it all. I think you see it all so clearly and you always have, silently blending in the shadows but everything is just a blur to me. The vision of a perfect ending that I've longed for, my reflection in the mirror has since turned black.

Is this why you are so familiar to me? How did I not see it? Why was I so foolish over who you are? How could I ever be anything that would show you something different? You saw it all along, so why did my novel bring you to read past chapter 1? You followed others when you knew the truth and saw the light; I could offer you nothing, yet you still remained by my side. I guess our curiosity will never end and we always have to know, but knowledge is half the battle when you can't answer things about yourself.

Did you find your answer in the footprints of another’s steps? You had to know, as you stood in the distance, watching my mistakes unfold as I fell. You were the perfect ending, but you doubted it too long to truly see it.

Finding that sense of self-worth is a battle we all fight every day. You knew where it all went wrong, but at least now you can hum that old hymn your grandpa would sing every morning the one that assured you that you were home, safe, and loved. A great feeling to experience once again, one you had felt was gone forever. It's a good feeling to finally be where you belong; it brings a real smile to my face, the type I haven't had in a long while. A smile that I don't have to fake. This is why I call you the perfect ending. You were the answer I never found, as I never asked the right questions to end up where you are now. I can always tell a story and some I'm more familiar with than my own but like most, these tales still have a few pages missing. I know the book itself is at its most crucial part, just reaching its peak for that big moment, yet I still somehow miss it all.

Nevertheless, this moment of anger between us invariably buries itself into my peripatetic subconsciousness as an involuntary vicissitude that we carve our days around which, in turn, unwillingly standardizes our lives as if we were meant to anticipate this occurrence and oblige. You saw it coming all along. Your vision couldn't be any clearer and I was too far away for my story to be heard the way it was meant.

My story tells itself with my time and pain, possessing me and portraying itself as a living entity, out on its own, ready to play the role of my life. Knowing all of my passions, all of my ambitions, and all of my wisdom, just to be used against me and viciously taken in haste, with no remorse or place for reconcile.

Still, the void in my heart, the purest form of malice cutting through flesh and straight to bone. I reach to take it all back with the very scourge of the story I never told. The things I've buried far too deeply that even it could never grasp. The words and agony were bitter and cursed, stabbing the heart like a thousand daggers with a twist, ensuring my pain was felt.

I will never know if I succeeded; I had retreated from the battle with myself and saw that I had lost who I was for too long. I'm now so far beyond the years of sorrow and the attenuation of my soul. I've drowned myself in tears of contrition and locked myself into a sleepless reverie that means, even now on the very still and tranquil new moon nights that tell this story so well, I lie awake.

All I wanted was for someone to care. I blamed anyone but myself for my mistakes. No mind so perfect could be this flawed. Now, somehow, I'm expected to know the stories I've never had the chance to hear coming from the people standing before me today, claiming they were told from long before. How when you know nothing about me? It was then I thought of my friend and all that I had done wrong. I could finally see the truth in you clearly, your value as a person; I see that I bid far too low. Why couldn't I see that I could have been a better friend and listened to you? You were the only one that never led me wrong, yet I still made it about me. I displayed a role of a teacher to a student, when in fact it was I who was being taught. I never meant for it to be that way and my intentions were pure of heart in my head. It all felt right, but even when you think you’ve got it all figured out, life will put you in your place and show you just how wrong you are.

The years pass by and I see many people come and go. This repeating cycle of memories, old and new, is the last honest, profound thought I had before losing myself within the empty strands of time itself. I am so lost in my dreams as time moves forward. This very moment takes its shape as if that cycle never began. The cycle you created to help me get where I need to be, but I was too lost in my own creation of what I think is right and failing to put faith in anything but me. I have no reason to complain now at being completely alone; I had pushed them away, one by one. You were always there and I was selfish, so I thank you now too late, my dearest friend.

We stand now eye to eye, inhale to exhale, trading the same old stories we thought we knew so well when, in fact, we never knew any of them at all. I should have listened closer. It was never about me. I wanted to be different and I was sure in thought, as it was calculated precisely. I should have followed when you called, but instead I tried to lead, blinded by my arrogance.

With a last look upon each other, our eyes stared deeply into the very core of our souls. The stories are way too real and yet so vastly different between us. We see that our blessings, once so virtuous, are now concealed in jagged and shattered glass, consumed with detest. The anticipation of a joyous ending has long departed, hence I blindly wrote my name into the ending with every letter nearly perfect, as if it were an oil painting. The story’s end had now laid its path before me. The one I should have taken was the one you showed me, so now this path I walk alone.

Our vastly different tales in this cycle shared the very same fate yet different from another’s eyes, as if it was only my blood that shed. We both took our departing breath and this became a story in itself, as we all fear facing death. The blink of an eye; the only thing we ever acknowledged as real in our lives lasted only a matter of minutes. I had missed my only chance. It was then, at last, that our stories finally read the same.

Peacefully, we drifted into an endless sea of thought, with nowhere to be and our minds laid to rest. Even that perfect ending truly wasn't as you thought it would be. A place we always end up as every road we take leads to the same place. A place where the words never mattered in the stories and our tales were left untold. These stories can't be put into words we can’t tell the tale we don’t know how to read and explain.

The scream of a thousand words is all that we hear and as we speak, our utterance is breathless, drowned out in the sound of it all. It is pointless to speak at all, as those words were never said with your wasted breath. You were silent long before, just playing with the words you had left unsaid. Perhaps those words would have made a difference now. You always knew when it served to speak, a skill I should now learn. That’s why everyone listens when you do of course, everyone but me. It pains me and

sorry can't be said, so it just becomes another word added to the thousand-word scream I hear every day in my head. I had missed it all and you showed me where to go, but the words you chose to speak left me to drown alone.

The novel slowly closes as it flips through the last few pages, left blank; as I drift into an eternal slumber, where I don't have to stay awake. Now is the moment I've sought so long, drifting apart from within as the epilogue gives closure. We know, at last, that the book was read.

It's such a shame I was too late. The silence is now so loud it's deafening. I wish for a moment where the thousand words would scream, as this silence has stripped away the last part of what I knew as me. At last we could see it as one. The first time to open my eyes and perhaps the last, but at least we can see it honestly, one time, for all that it is. We can hear the most beautiful song ever written as the sounds of the silence breaks and dissipates, returning the thousand words scream. You now have joined me as we fade away into a void of black.

From my perspective, at least once, we may both see the light in all its glory. That feeling, the release, the peaceful hymns we heard as

children that woke us every day that we hated so much. Now those songs lead our way as the black fades away. A wonderful life we have yet to create, as we all missed something this crucial along the way. It was far from our time, but can't you see that you need me as much as I need you? We have to see the same light, even when it's different, as no one can see very well in the dark.

Being alive is the only thing that I'll never understand, but it feels so good to be back home. I haven’t seen that smile from you, my friend, for forever and a day. Can we take a walk together, one last time, but you lead the way this time? It's not a surprise for me to see you shake your head to answer no. We begin to walk along side by side. I had almost missed it all again and can't ever seem to get it right. Now I see that you continue to shake your head to answer no, still never saying words unless necessary. I fall silent as well and continue to walk by your side, thinking about the days that lie ahead and all the life I had left to live. It feels good to walk by my friend once again.

Where does this feeling come from? But maybe it’s only a moment we had forgotten. Is this why you are so famiiar to me? What led you to read past chapter one with me? I finally knew the answer to the questions where it all began and when it occurred, I could finally see that it's not hard to understand. I had it right all along, but I never had the pen to write it down. I focused on the things that made life hard, then on these moments when I would be sure to have a pen to write it down only focusing on the grief. As I take this walk with my friend, the days are all familiar; the good and the bad create the same old stories our parents read before us. You had to compromise and learn as well, taking the lead when your bell rang and speaking more so I never got left behind. It was never hard to understand, but we had both missed so much. You can't live life thinking that your story is something new that was my biggest flaw. The drowning of my soul shy of your helping hand.

Everyone's story is a chapter in a book, but even when that story is different, it still reads and ends the same way. Without sharing our stories, the book can never be read. The story to know is the easiest one to get and our life writes it down as we go, adding another chapter to its pages. Now we make the perfect beginning and end. I walk now with my friend by my side, a moment to be cherished. It's good to know that, regardless of what happens, no one’s story is different it all begins and ends the same. The best stories always come from those that are heard and those we create. It truly is a great day to hear your voice again, to hear our voices together at last. We both know where the road leads now, so which direction shall we go? Like a river we flowed, letting our will guide where we went as we walked along the way, sharing all of the stories we had left unsaid from the beginning to the end of all our days. That familiar feeling, the wonderul feeling you get at the start of a new chaper. We have read this once before, my friend, and it’s a great day to start again. Sometimes it's just like that I suppose. The same old stories we would always tell, but we never wrote in ink.