The End?

Have you ever felt like your story was over? Not your life, but your story. Your lungs still taking in air, your heart still in rhythm, but your soul had read the last line of the story? You touch pages and scan back and forth with scared eyes. You wanted there to be more than this. You wanted the story to keep going. Lump in throat you grab twisted stomach because this is all there is. The end. And now, with a soul only half alive you have to live on this page for the rest of forever. The end. You rub damp eyes and hope you are not seeing it correctly, but it still says, The End. Like cartoon shows, but not in the least bit humorous.

You flip back through pages to see if you missed something. The wiz-bang finish that somehow got lost in your speed reading and distractions. Sweat forming on your brow. Life welling up in your stomach. Making sure you know where the nearest bathroom is, in the event the feelings decide they need to come out. Because this, this? This is where you have to plant feet now. In a story without an ending? In a story where you just have to live until you die.

In the space where he said he didn’t want to get married, but got married, just not to you. Where you wanted to succeed in a job without drama, but tears and words found you in your office chair you are forced to sit in. Stunned. Where he said the distance was too much, but he decided she was worth thousands of miles, and you were not worth hundreds. Where they left because they were not whole enough to see you as bright and wonderful as you are. And along with their heart they took all the other hearts with them and left yours to shrivel in the darkness of it all. Where hope became a wish and a wish just became a charred candle on a cake that wasn’t made for you. 

And you hear the echo in your head. The sound of your own dying soul because you tried as hard as you could to do right. To be right. To trust and obey. There was no other way. But now, you must live here on blank page. You cannot stick fingers in ears and quiet the sound of the dying. No going back and nothing going forward. Just gray hair, echoing footsteps, single beds, tablespoons of regret forced down. Groundhog day every day of the year. 

Back through the pages you realize you were not good enough. Tall enough. Strong enough. Blond enough. Close enough. Far enough. Mean enough. Nice enough. Soul dies and you cannot revive. You must live here. Permanent address established 2018.

Book down. Eyes washed. Soul crushed. Bootstraps up. If you have to you have to. Because the story is over but your life is not and you are not sure which is worse. So you live there. Fake smiles and Christian cliche sayings and open Bible and scared guts. Day after day. Months after month. Years after years.

One more time. One more look at the book just to make sure. Because this can’t be it? You start from the back this time. Open to the pages no one reads. The ones with information no one cares about. And you see it. Soul leaps. Not too high for fear of an even further decent. Can broken things break more? Glasses on. 

There is another book? This wasn’t the only book. A sequel. Hope.

More pages. More story. More. You proceed with caution because dead souls hurt worse than living ones. Broken hearts sting worse when touched. Broken can break more. But more pages? New pages. Small references of the old pages but in a new book. A new book even better than the last. More characters. More.

Cautious eyes. New names you don’t recognize. But you only see a preview of what is to come. Only one chapter. The soul wants more. But more will have to wait. But more means hope and hope means joy and joy means healing and healing means more story. 

More. Story. Cautious. Healing. Scared. But more.

So you read on.