PART I - Nothingness
There is an essential something to trivial nothingness. The very fact that we feel nothingness is a paradox, isn’t it? How do we feel something that is not, inherently, there? Just the way how the Big Bang started with nothing. Or was it with something? I can never remember. Nevertheless, it’s really a trivial concept, this nothingness. That is what — I have learned — most people never understand by the end of their lives.
A quiet town, a boy, a passport, and a girl. This isn’t a story about the girl. Or the boy. It isn’t about the passport nor the town, either. This is a story on how much of it doesn’t really matter. Really, how the girl came to realize that the boy and the town and the passport, like many other things, are all the same. Everywhere. All at once. And nothing, nowhere, never. In an attempt to understand life, in general, this story is about a girl who threw herself at it. Life, that is. A story that is much easier to explain at the end of your life, than when you are right in the middle of it.
The End. That is where I come in.
There’s no word, really, for what I do. Just as there is no name for who I am. The nomenclature tradition is so overtly mundane. Actually, for people, I am more of a trope or fictional occurrence than an essential part of The End. Don’t even get me started on what they think The End is, either; I’ve heard tales from fire pits to castles in the clouds and I haven’t yet decided which is worse.
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