The end of our end


Meghan Kennedy

A picture I took at the Lorde concert I recently attended in Chicago. It reminded that I have so much to be grateful for and so much to look forward to.

The walls I’m sitting between have started to compress; they move an inch closer every time my lungs hesitantly inflate then deflate. In retrospect, I haven’t been breathing that much—or in a way that I’m supposed to—and now it’s catching up to me.

The days and weeks and months have all blended into that dirty color arranged by the habitual switch of paints, with only a thread of similarity running through their vague complexion—the thought of you. A lot of things have been rearranged since I last wanted to see you, and with each restrained breath I take, with each centimeter further the walls close in, your green keeps sinking deeper.

Though the sky has learned the lines of its lighter routine and the air has breached eighty, it’s hard to shake your stark presence and the feeling of constant want associated with you. As much as condensing this feeling into a pocket sized problem has been strenuous, it has paid off—it has never felt better to say that I’ve been patient. It’s never felt better to move on. 

The months that have detached me from the green you lend have shared a common theme: coming to terms with closing chapters. Nothing is forever; not even the days and things and practices that feel like it. 

I’m at a point where the world is always shifting in its movements—it’s quite frankly never still. The car I once leaned against on a night of stillness has since left my side, hats have turned to headbands, the dull is saturating, and the pavement beneath me is now a path to the many other streets I will soon connect with. 

As I’m sitting between these walls that feel like they are about to meet despite my being in between, the symptoms for an ending are starting to kick in. I’m finding myself sinking into the surreal clutch of the lasts awaiting me. They are flooding in, pooling at my feet, begging me to notice as they crawl up my ankles, but I know that they can’t pull me into their undertow.

The night is not what intrigues me anymore, but rather what the coming daytime will lay out for me. This time, I’m planning out what I can do to move the sun with my words rather than worrying about what the moon wants. I’m just starting to pick up all of the pieces, just starting to notice that more flowers are growing around me.

If I’m being honest, in these months without your withering verdant, I’ve tasted what life is offering me. I’ve danced in the neon that is still settled atop of my features, I’ve screamed until my voice couldn’t utter a sound, and I’ve sifted through the options spontaneity has opened. I’ve even glided into my favorite time of the year without as much pain as it usually takes to get here—I can gladly say that I’ve made do with the lemons that life gave me.

I’m just starting to pick up all of the pieces, just starting to notice that more flowers are growing around me.

I used to think that I was a girl tinted with blue, but now I’m starting to feel more purple, and I think that is a good thing. I’ve always clung to what I thought suited me, but with this end—our end—approaching, I’ve changed my mind once again.

I’m thinking that the walls are about to finally shut, but I have an inkling that I will not be squashed between them—I will be out in my new light, dancing around a room that has held so much for me and letting it be a part of my past.

Since your hue is undeniably here, I’m willing to make amends. I’ll let our purples and greens intertwine into a scape of fruitful chances and outcomes, into a vibrant plane of the colors that will make up what is to come. When that happens, I can take a deep breath.

Now, here I am; the girl written in purple with an entire field of flowers to pick, ready to part with this chapter.