With a book, it’s clear where it begins and ends. You open the cover and begin reading with an Introduction, or Once upon a time, which is just a different kind of introduction. And even if it doesn’t say the end, it’s clear when the book is over. There aren’t any more pages. Typically there’s a neat conclusion or a happily ever after which is not precisely an end to the story, but it’s a strong signal that now it is time for you, the reader, to leave. The book runs out of pages, there’s a back cover mirroring the front, and then you’re back on the street, blinking and looking around you.
I have never been terribly good at endings. I tend to remain steadfastly, doggedly loyal to things, people, jobs, hobbies, cities, apartments. I find myself still holding strong, trying to start up a dance party at 2 AM when it’s been clear to others for a while that the party is over, and they’ve all gone home or moved on to other things. (This is both a metaphor and a literal thing that has happened, more than once.)
And because I don’t traffic much in endings, I don’t have very much practice with beginnings, either. If you never stop doing anything you start, eventually you run out of time in your day, week, year, and you can’t add anything else to the stack.
The past two years haven’t gone to plan for me. That’s probably the understatement of this cursed decade. But even holding COVID aside, some choices I made haven’t really panned out. I found myself realizing last year that it was 2 am, and it wasn’t time for a dance party, it was time for a rest and a fresh start.