Story
    The end. Or the start. Words so finite that hardly deserve the bat of an eye. For when did the game truly finish once âThe Endâ was displayed across the screen? Likewise, didnât every story have a start long before the title screen was ever played?
    Finite. Tangible. Bookends.
    Not something that could be molded like a potter to clay, nor something like a twist of a hand through wires of coding. An author, a designer, a god-- that was what really decided when something began or ended.
    He was a merchant. Merely, just, or extra ordinary. A couple of pixels formed together on a screen, a few lines of code with scripted dialogues and witty banter to exchange at every meeting. That was his design, shaped by a being greater than the Code itself. And he accepted that. Yet he was never one to not stick his hand anyplace it could fit.
    An entrepreneur. A shopkeeper. A Masked Hero. King. Angel. God. Partner.
    Partner.
    The end. Or the start.
    A loop that kept going and extended far beyond any notion of time. Infinity is and was and forever will be: infinity. Patterns repeated, changed, exploited, explained. A hand placed anywhere it could fit and trying to grasp at whatever was in reach.
    A lost soul. Turned lover. Turned friend. Turned effigy and infinite in the reactions she caused. Shapes to the person, to the thing, to the coding. A love that was formed through time and will for forever, extend through time. To the then, and to the now. To infinite. To ever.
    Others. Many others met, reflections cast on the glass. Tapping at the window. Knocking at the door. Tribulations and experiments, enjoyment and heartbreak. Expressions of emotion. Shattering like glass dropped from the tallest building. Of height and air and soaring and joy. Unmasked at last. Not the end; that was the start. There was his life. There was a cause. That was the start.
    The start of something. Not something to put into words, to leave for eyes to find, to express for others to monopolize. But a broken shard of darkest times. A wounded heart. A tortured soul.
    A soul. A heart. A bond.
    His. He started, and starts again.
    Living, dying, pushing on for what mattered. The unknown, the broken, the shattered. Fit together. Placed together. Despite it all, despite every ache. Pushing on. Becoming more than he thought he could. His own strength with the support of true friends.
    This: to the continuation of that life. A reason. Motivation. A meaning to the repetitive, to the scripts, to the preassigned roles. A reason to break past it. Not perfect, never perfect. But a perspective on an infinity that could maybe be... happy. His own.
    ...
    A silence. A respect for the lives lived till this moment, and the lives that will continue on passed it. A reflection on the times since gone and the spirits behind each byte. A thank you, but not really a good bye. He was going on. Continuing, exploring the depth of his new self. A new chapter to be told but never publicized. Memories become stories, alive in light of the past. Nothing is ever truly gone, and this is never truly the end.
    For a story goes on long after âThe Endâ is displayed, and his life will forever be filled with stories.
