Know when to fold 'em

Everything comes to an end

Replace the fluorescent dawn of a maternity ward with the wash of an ink-blue sky. You start life in a soccer field. Bright bleacher lights, the crowd’s waterfall roar. You step to a line in cleats and give the ball one swift kick. That's the length of your life. There are no do-overs.

Everything comes to an end. You train for endings by trading linguistic simulations called stories. All stories have an end (except for your mother's), and you couldn’t want it any other way.

Even television used to close each night with the national anthem and a test pattern. Today, you thirst for firehose. You want your favorite stories to run forever, your relationships to never change, your routines to remain permanently satisfying. You ask “and then what happened?” and the algorithms deliver, forever. Permanence is the enemy of meaning. Never trust a story that promises “forever.”

Not all endings are the same.

They can be drama: the shouty you-can't-take-that-back pronouncements, punctuated by door slams. They can be delicate: the gradual transition of your friend group into parents while Hey Jude plays. They can be doom: when you are locked out of your country, by bureaucracy, never to return.

This isn't the last post, but it is the beginning of the end.

The reason is simple: I'm writing a book. These microprinciples are starting to feel different. They are no longer the rehydrated post-its that inspired this project. They long to become something else. I feel them changing under my fingers.

(If you're interested in providing feedback on early drafts, you should let me know.)

This might feel like a Midwest goodbye—the kind where you announce your departure but linger in the foyer for 45 minutes. I'll keep posting until I don't. The remaining notes might taste different, like your favorite donut shop changed the recipe. You won’t see it coming. Equal parts drama and fade away.

Not all endings are the same, but in a sense they all are. Endings are the acknowledgment of heartbreak. The force that turns every story into something you can hold.