The End

“The end is where we start from.” — T.S. Eliot, “Little Gidding”

I am a teleologist of circumstance. Call it a gift, a gift to see endings. For example, I know the fate of Fate. (Clotho runs out of fiber. Lachesis breaks her measuring rod. Atropos loses her scissors.) I could tell you how Death dies. (If I did, though, the knowledge would kill you.) Just kidding. His scythe rusts to nothing. The odor of the trash heap of History fills my nose. The tides of Destiny evaporate in the expanding sun. Apocalyptic visions offered by those in slick suits don’t move me. The horses of the four horsemen become dog food. All the mints made on Wall Street are eventually eaten. Just rewards, though, don’t amount to too much. When all is said and done, all will be said and done. The inevitable finally gives way to evitability. The child of Necessity invents a new mother. Gazing into a crystal ball becomes a high school history lesson. END statements never end while the heaven of Neverland ever ends. The anticipation that asks the question, “What happens next?” eludes me. Mystery always remaining a mystery remains a mystery. Don’t tell Alpha: Omega brings the show to a close. To conclude, I don’t know how it all ends, other than with the excuse the ends justify the means and there is no ribbon at the last finish line.