The beginnings. I get sick with them.
The beginning of something that could be love, the beginning of something that could become a faded memory of someone I once knew, the beginning of the end, the beginning of a vacation you know will end; all of that I'm unwilling to feel okay with. My auto-response is to opt for a route that might never know the outcome; to opt for a state of suspended disbelief.
I'm frightened of beginnings. They make me think miles upon miles a minute, frankly, at a rate my brain is not quite adept to function at.
I need an antigen for my reaction to the beginnings. I want to become okay with beginnings. I want not to have the ups and downs of the beginnings but also know that without them, my feelings would be obsolete; we'd be in a state of closed eyes and motionless hearts and for that, I'm willing to itch, scratch, cough, wheeze and sneeze through the scare of the beginnings.
