lately i've been coming home in a fog, reentering this world of ours from the far off reaches of imagination. other worlds, so many of them i don't even remember their names most of the time...
i'm so close to the end. i'm in the winding down phase. i'm in the part that i would usually say to myself 'okay, you can just write a quick sketch and figure it out later' because i'm just so anxious to move onto the next story.
But there is no next story this time. This is the end. This is what five seperate and enormous piles of paper and four years of my life has been heading towards. i didn't know it at the beginning, at least maybe not consiously. Back then i couldn't seem to find the right way to edit anything because it all seemed so drifty. Now it's anchored, front and back. I can begin again.
so in these last few chapters i'm not slacking. i'm not saying i'll write it later because i want to see it. i want to pay attention. same way that i always log out of my station at work to read the last two pages of my books uninterrupted. i want to really see the ending.
And when i'm finished, rather than my usual salutation to no one but myself i will not write "The Endish" becuase there's no -ish about it. This is the end.
i don't worry. there's another beginning out there. in fact in a round about way, it's begun. but it can hold. and stew. and wait. i don't feel it yet. but it's got its room, its door, its potential. it's planted.