End of a Sentence

 

The sentence ends, period, full stop. Fixing a duration onto a point. 

It has done its time, indicated with a pin prick in the white: a minuscule black hole that pulls the sentence to its completion, its undoing. Forward, the gravity of thought, darkness, release from the punishment of consciousness. 

But the point is a problem, a specter. Does not exist. 

The thinking doesn't stop. What's that? The wind moves slowly in the branches. Any decision, any cutting off, is merely a going forward with no going back, a road taken while the other has morphed into something else, no longer the old alternative. The thrust of change remains the only real. 

It works so much better in Japanese. この文が終わりました。This sentence has finished. Indeed, it has, followed by a little ring, a circle of confirmation, a period fixed onto a period, an open stop.

The movement doesn't end unless it is diverted, unless another change materializes. 

Until the new sentence begins.