Endings and beginnings look just the same.

I am giving birth. I am midwife to myself. Now is a new life full of possibilities. I must be strong like a child.

The beauty that lies hidden, makes my soul tremble with awe.

Despite my pain, I felt not the regret of an ending, but the foreboding of a beginning.

I can't keep myself from creativity. Ideas flash like lightning burning my bones. It must flow out of my hands or it will burst me apart.

It’s hard to say where a story begins and ends. You have to draw an arbitrary line somewhere. Somewhere between perception and reality. Between what is spoken and what is heard. Between what is written and what is edited out. I know this, you can’t have an ending without a beginning. Even if they are really just random pieces of the middle that tend to stand out. Staccato notes on the page. Points on a circle.