The beginning of the end of the beginning of the end

The pure agony of the loneliness at the bitter end. You know you can do it because you’ve done it before. But you don’t want to do it. And then you are in it, coming ever so gradually to what will be acceptance and you wonder…when does it go from an end to a beginning? Because at some point, you go from the shattered and broken ending and emerge from the cocoon of loss into something. And it’s the beginning of whatever it will be. But if only you didn’t have to do the work. If only you could just fast forward right to the beginning. But no. It can’t happen with just a long run in the park or enough wine with a friend or even an interaction with a stranger that suggests you could possibly, ever be appealing to another human being again. No. You must stay still. Listen to your heart beating in your tightened, anxious chest. Let yourself feel those mother fucking feelings, and they will go ahead and come whenever they please. Because a book title or a pile of leaves or one single chord that begins a certain song can take you right to your damn knees. And to your knees you must go. Embittered with the injustice of it all. Clinging to all of the good and in denial of all the wrongs. Helpless to the wounds and left to wait for them to heal. And they will. 

You can be so tired of starting over that you are sure you’ll never be able to do it again. But you’ll do it.

Again.