On Beginnings

I like beginnings,
beginnings of books and movies,
of life stages and relationships.
There is nothing so final and concrete
about beginnings.
In the beginning,
everything is new,
a great unknown we try
to understand with excitement
and fear.
But endings,
endings are filled with too
much pain and often regret.
At least one can remain
temporarily ignorant in the
beginning.
That is what I miss the most,
not knowing how it ends.

This Is What Happens When Depressed People Write

What happens

when we allow ourselves

to feel? Do we suddenly

recognize

the pain,

the sadness,

the agony

buried deep inside

our bustling minds? Or, is

the recognition

gradual?

Do we slowly

develop into

anxious beings

wanting to rid

ourselves of either

our trouble

or life, itself?