The Beginning of The End.

The long-drawn path to betterment has found a climax. So tantalising in the way it excited my every emotional nerve, it didn't disappoint.

You see, I've been seeing the therapist for close to a year now, once a week. And the final piece of the puzzle emerged with my cousin's wedding last December, where she revealed that it all started before I could even remember.

Then after, we spoke about the Rapes. To utmost unconscious reluctance, I suppose. But we spoke about them, nonetheless.

So in a way, if this path to recovery was structured like a narrative—then the climax has drawn its final conclusion, and what we have now is the beginning of the end.

What I have now is the beginning of the end.

Because there is no we as I near the finish of my story. No Jeromes, Jians or Jazzes to hold my hand as I cry. No Daryl to break brunch and drink wine with in celebration of triumph against adversity.

Because with every touch of my clumsy, stubby fingers, I destroy. I guess they had more foresight than I wanted to believe when they dubbed me the "Hands of Destruction" back in high school.

If a tree cries "Eureka!" in the woods and no one hears it, did it even cry?

As monumental as it is supposed to be, my cries go out across the endless void of nothingness. And even the loudest sound needs a wall to echo back from.

But there is nothingness. And there is nothing.

In the end, it's nothing more than just much ado about nothing.