Everything is coming to an end. No more. There is no more time, no more reason, no more hope.
Ends are not quite so dreary as my miserable wailing may make them seem, though. Beginnings, aside from the verum primum, always come from ends. Perhaps it could be argued by the more pedantic in this world that the word is a misnomer in most cases, and I guess I would be hard-pressed to disagree. But, then, I digress.
So what am I afraid of? Why does my heart tremble more with each beat? Losing what is left I suppose. Losing that tiny nothingness that seems so great up close yet is diminished by distance as one of the pindrops of light from a star. I am terrified of this being a verum finis. Why does a prince cling to what even he cannot buy? Perhaps precisely because he cannot buy it. Once it has gone, it is gone.
Is a treasure’s value based solely upon its rarity? No. No, that simply cannot be true. It is the relative value to the beholder which determines true value, based not on some market of economic sensibility, but on the insensibility of the heart, on that economy which values based upon love rather than supply. Would Odysseus have traded Penelope’s love for him for her ‘market value’? Never. Not for every treasure in Zeus’ coffers.
So what is the relative value of this treasure to me? I don’t know anymore. Is that dubiety equivalent to nothingness, to worthlessness? No, I don’t think so, but I can’t say that there is any value left with certainty either.
Regardless, it doesn’t matter. The accords have been drawn. The troops marshaled. Whether by pen or pistol, the end is here. Shall there be a new beginning afterwards? Win or lose, forward through the breach. Though, will it be a Pyrrhic victory or a Laevinic defeat? Or perhaps neither. Or perhaps… it makes no difference.