Endings and beginnings

We have endings, X tells me, that much is clear, everything ends all the time, in fact his life seems like one long ending. But to end you have to begin, he says, there are no ends without beginnings. Thus we begin as often as we end, and end as we begin, which makes our despair meaningless. Or is my logic flawed? he asks. Probably, he says. We breathe the dust of the dead and living, he says. The corpses we plant become seeds and we’re the seeds of past and future corpses, hardly distinguishable from one another. Am I part of you or are you part of me? he asks. I come to you in my tiredness, he says, in my exhaustion, to renew myself in these words, in all the things I have to say to you, in all my questions. My questions unanswered, they begin again in new forms, so lightly here, like clouds that form and disperse. And yet it could be, he says, it could very well be that I just need to get laid.


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