An Ending

When you’ve turned the last page, when there is no more to be said, should we close the book? Should I, close this book?

This story that has been my life to this point.

This story is not so different than many, good times and bad times. But now it has changed, I have changed. No longer am I interested in living a life where anger and guilt are thrown at me, mercilessly. No longer am I willing to deny myself to appease another.

Waiting, always waiting, hoping beyond hope that things will change. When in reality all the changes are for the worse. Slowly spiraling into a morass of guilt and shame. Of which I should have little.

If I were to close this book, jump into that ocean of possibilities, would I wash up on a more welcoming shore. Could I build a new story, a new life, or would I still feel the guilt? The guilt of abandoning this life, this life that I’ve invested so much. Given so much.

I think I should burn this book. Lest I return to it, to keep adding more chapters. Building on an already bad story. Growing smaller with every word written.

How do I burn it? Do I strike flint to steel, and fan the flames of destruction? It is not in my nature to do this harm, however deserving. I’ve found that I can’t save someone unwilling. Someone unable to change, the writing too firmly cast in her own story. I’m not strong enough it seems. Bruised as I am. Abused as I am.

Still I ruminate, unable to face the pain. And the suffering this will bring, to us both.