I’ve recently been thinking about endings, which is a natural thing to do, at least in respect to my usual mind set. What is unusual is that I’ve managed to mostly avoid thinking about endings for the better part of a decade. Supposedly, I did this to help clear my mindset and help me move forward on the path to better mental and emotional health. At least that’s what I told myself, the more recent years may speak otherwise, as would my therapist…probably.

Thinking back, I remember as a child anytime I reached the ending to a movie or book, or really any storytelling media I’d always feel this unplaceable feeling. My stomach would drop, my fingers would tingle, I’d feel something in my throat, but no matter how much I coughed and hacked nothing would come up. I hated those feelings, but at the same time, I could never stop myself from continuing to read, the journey was just too interesting. The feeling was loss, or I guess mourning; it was the realization that I’d reached the end of something and no matter how much I tried, no matter how often I reread, or rewatched it, I would never quite experience again. There can be no second first impressions. The whole idea was something the younger me could never quite articulate, and the older me completely forgot about until very recently.