The End

I hate the end, I hate the end of anything and everything at all, I have never finished a meal in my life, always I will leave a cluster of peas or a selected piece of meat on my plate to highlight that the meal has not been entirely finalised, always in my coffee cup I will leave a brown puddle at the bottom, it repulses me to see the white china surface shamelessly announcing Finished, Complete, I hate full-stops so bold on the page proclaiming that the sentence is over, I refuse to entertain such certainty, the commas is much more hospitable on the page, sweeping, delicately suggesting a temporal break, which will inevitably be followed by more words, more and more, words, I love numbers, numbers never end, you can count add one count add one count add one and never need to stop even negatives, nothings, you can count nothing for all time if you so wish and they never seem to run out, blissful endlessness, the circle, the circle gives me the greatest joy, one complete yet endless line that you can trace with your finger never needing to stop and start at the beginning again round and round endlessly, joyously, round and round, when I listen to a song I always will listen to it on a loop, taking the music in a circle, it completes its course only to return to the start again never settling on the silence of completion, I have never finished a novel in my life I reach the last chapter and set it aside knowing that it rests peacefully uncompleted with the option of me returning to it at a later time always available, death is my ultimate repulsion I detest its finality more than anything, seeing gravestones lined up like a firing line makes me want to vomit, so ordered all in rows like the bars of a cage trying to trap the unruly dead in case they object to the condition of their final end, just falling asleep is what they say passed away, passed, passed, asleep


I have been reading a bit of Stanley Donwood recently (even though I should be studying. oops) and he is amazing at capturing the voice of paranoia in his narrators, so I wrote this up to have a go at toying with voice. I guess it’s an exaggerated aspect of realism in that, like the voice in this i don't really care for things ending but I’m not quite as psycho about it. See I can use full-stops. Quite comfortably. And I actually hate numbers. Quite a lot. But its fun to exaggerate part of yourself into paranoia. Guess I should get back to studying. Here endeths my creative break.

the end