I'm sorry. I'm truly sorry that I held on for so long. I see now that it was a mistake. I see now that I shouldn't have done so. But you must understand. I only held on because I hoped that if I kept the book alive, if I kept writing, I could turn the ending around. I didn't want to accept that my first book has a sad ending.
But now I see that it's ok if it ends badly. It's ok if the last pages are smudged. Because it's a good book. It was wonderful and terrible all at once, but it was never boring. I jumped so frequently between up and down that neither could ever claim me as their own.
I learned a lot. Living all those pages taught me more than I could have ever hoped to learn. I'm a better person today because of that bad ending. I lived. Those pages I've been clinging to are the proof that I lived, in all the deep meanings of the word. So what does it matter if it ended on a bad note? The beginning and middle were worth the read. Holding on and trying to scribble down nonsense just to keep a dead story alive won't change how it ended.
So here's my birthday present to myself. I will finally stop writing. I will stamp the words "The End" at the place where twenty-three years of life end, and I will add "Book 1" to the title page. I will close the book and set it aside. I will grant it freedom. I will let it be the way it was meant to be. Sad ending and all.
For my birthday, I give myself the truth and a beginning. I give myself a fresh start. A new book, with new dreams, new hopes and new aspirations. I give myself endless free space for change to find rest. I give myself empty pages and new pens. I give myself a Book 2.
Happy Birthday, even if it's two days late..
To Me
But now I see that it's ok if it ends badly. It's ok if the last pages are smudged. Because it's a good book. It was wonderful and terrible all at once, but it was never boring. I jumped so frequently between up and down that neither could ever claim me as their own.
I learned a lot. Living all those pages taught me more than I could have ever hoped to learn. I'm a better person today because of that bad ending. I lived. Those pages I've been clinging to are the proof that I lived, in all the deep meanings of the word. So what does it matter if it ended on a bad note? The beginning and middle were worth the read. Holding on and trying to scribble down nonsense just to keep a dead story alive won't change how it ended.
So here's my birthday present to myself. I will finally stop writing. I will stamp the words "The End" at the place where twenty-three years of life end, and I will add "Book 1" to the title page. I will close the book and set it aside. I will grant it freedom. I will let it be the way it was meant to be. Sad ending and all.
For my birthday, I give myself the truth and a beginning. I give myself a fresh start. A new book, with new dreams, new hopes and new aspirations. I give myself endless free space for change to find rest. I give myself empty pages and new pens. I give myself a Book 2.
Happy Birthday, even if it's two days late..
To Me
