The End

Two hundred and seventy-seven pages. 192,411 words. Every intimate encounter and intense feeling captured on paper to remember in detail what the mind can too easily forget. I had often wondered how long before the story would end or if there even was an end. Today, those words were written in bold print at the very bottom of what began much like a beautiful fairytale, sweeping me underneath its protective wing and flying me to places that I had never before dreamed of. 

Blind were my eyes, allowing my heart to feel what it had loathed for so long. This deep seeded hatred the only thing saving me. 

As I write these words, I am reminded of his. So simplistic and cold, though I still question their intention. What should be flowing from my veins in this very moment should be anything but flattering, yet the true nature of my being no longer possesses this weakness. My strengths are not those which can be defined by what others choose to believe, but how I choose to conquer my own insecurities in the presence of pain. 

Burdens which weighed so heavily on my shoulders, now suddenly feel lifted. The reflection staring back at me once again true to the words written across the page, and a smile no longer dependent on the presence of another. Alas, my work here is done, the benefits of which I will never know. Perhaps, they were not meant for me, but for another who so desperately needed them in his time of pain.-