the end

The end can feel like an infinity. It's that one excruciating moment when you know it's over - finished, terminated, completed, someone up on the universal scale tipped the balance and all the coins fell out, now they're raining down over your head and you're drowning. That's the end, you know: suffocation. A wall has suddenly appeared. An "end of public path" sign. The cliff's edge. Except there's no sea beyond that cliff, there's no more path, nothing beyond the wall. Just nothing. Nothing is an ineffable concept, you know: it's suffocating to wrap your head around. It's just too much of virtually everything that makes it nothing, you know? Don't you know? You have to accept in those few milliseconds that this is your new reality, the sun that hides behind a wall no longer exists at all, and that, that, is nothing. Tell me you know. Because someone else has to know, someone else has got to understand right? That when something ends, when it's completed, there's just nothing left. Not even nothing. Then there's no point; it's just you and the abyss. You have to find a new path you know? You have to hurry. Fill the void before it consumes you. Somebody please tell me they understand that.