Midnights

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I reside at 11:59,

Sincerely, ms. imperfect

This is the mantra that played in the head of a lost and wandering teenager.

Me.

If we’re being specific.

I wrote these words in a poem when I was 17. Heck, I put them on my lock screen!

I was so convinced that there were some things I could not have simply because I was me.

It felt like I was stuck at the last minute of the last day.

Getting so close to the edge of something new and wonderful and brave… but never being able to pass over into it.

Into tomorrow.

It’s like there has never been a 12 on my clock.

It seems as though everyone else has been living in another realm. On a different time table.

Leaving me behind in the place and time I cannot escape.

Where others live in perfect circles, I live in a sliver –

The space between 11:59 and 12:00 midnight.

You see, I hate endings.

Always have, always will.

Whether it’s a TV series, a song, a dessert, a book, an experience, a season, a year, a friendship… I fucking hate endings.

When it’s all over and memories that are much more taste-less rush into the spaces instead…

And you wouldn’t know it just by looking at me, but I’ve always been a cynic.

Keeping a dark garden in my world of summer colors.

I’ve never dressed in all black or worn heavy eyeliner, but death is one of my favorite subjects.

The ultimate fascination.

The ultimate ending.

My favorite thing to joke about even.

And that’s why there is not a 12 on my clock…

I can only ever see the end.

But, I’m getting older now.

I’m saying goodbye to more and more.

Seeing the ending of everything I knew come to pass again and again. And my epiphany is this–

I’ve been living like things should never end. Like things should just always be how they always were.

But, maybe they SHOULD end. Not just that they DO end but that they SHOULD end.

I don’t have to like it.

But, I do have to accept that the end is a part of the beginning and the middle.

To experience the joy of beginnings and the contentment of middles, you must have the glorious, tricky, fantastically atrocious heartache of the end.

We like to say things like “forever”.

We like to say “never”.

Less popular however are “When it’s over” or “After”.

I’ve been living like there is no “After”.

But there’s always an after.

“After this job”, “After this car”, “After this friend”, maybe even “After this life”.

You should never go into anything assuming that it will simply always be, because it won’t be, and more importantly, it shouldn’t be.

Endings are tragic.

They hurt.

Yes they hurt.

But fighting them only makes it worse. Avoiding them pauses the ache, but the end will play itself out.

Try though you might to stop it, endings are a necessary evil.

I don’t like it, but I must make peace with it to thrive in this life.

I recently got a tiny tattoo on my wrist. (pictured in my previous post) It’s just three tiny arrowheads pointing forward. Reminding me that there is more than this.

There is more than just the end.

And it’s mine.

It’s all of ours if we can just be brave enough to let go of that tiny sliver of space we are living in.

My clock has never had a 12, so I’m drawing one in.

Because it’s all for me.

The midnights, the newness, the love, the cyclical beauty of dying just to be reborn again, and again, and again.

It is all there for the living.