In the beginning, there was only the end. He coveted closure. Just the thought of the ending sent goose bumps up his hands. He imagined himself typing, every word with an effortless stroke like a synchronized swimmer zipping through the water. His fingers danced upon the keyboard like a ballerina tip toeing across a polished wooden floor. The silent screeches when he brushed his fingers on the keys just before scooting off to the next key were like the sound of the fingers shifting a chord on an acoustic guitar.
His motor neurons never felt so calm. All he could visualize was ending it. The last words, the last phrase, the last meaning, the End. He hadn't written it yet, nor had he seen what it would look like. All he could think of was writing it. His momentum would guide him like a distant lighthouse on an unknown shore. The boat would bob in the water watching the light turning ON & OFF & ON again. The pulse of the shore almost reverberated through the hull. With each key stroke his breath grew heavier yet in perfect rhythm. Just as the hull of the boat creaks in the water his lungs hissed with exhaustion & excitement. With the shore approaching, the fingers clicked on the keyboard resembling waves silently moving up & down & up again, leading the boat with them. It was a silent peristalsis of thoughts being sent in wave after wave to his fingers.
Why was the end so important? Why does the boat have to reach the shore? To end with a question would be sinister. To solve the mystery of the beginning would be moral. Nobody appreciates the creation of a problem, but they always reward the solution. Shouldn't the problem be rewarded too? The problem carries in it the seeds of its own solution, the beginning is loaded with the end. Without the problem there would be no solution & without a beginning there is no chance of an end. It's a revolver, cocked and ready to be fired.
He is tempted to go on & waste a perfect stride. He does it. He misses the crescendo & the symphony collapses on itself. He is only left with a coagulated End in his heart, which somehow won't circulate to his finger tips. A feeling of terror slowly creeps up to him as he watches the cursor blink on the screen, asking, "Now What!". . .