I leaned against the guardrail right next to her and we both gazed down through the tenebrous staircase below. The school seemed quite unlike the one I’ve grown to know so well, almost as if it was an entirely different place. The nearby church glaring brightly, illuminated against the inky skyline of pine trees that spread across the horizon - the adjacent houses quiescent and dark. The building was all lifeless as I had longboarded through it’s poignant empty corridors - an experience I had asserted to be one of the most fundamental sort. Most of the people were asleep by now, I thought, either in our class or the school chapel since it was the only room with a carpet. The parallel’s classroom was still lit with several people talking in small groups. We had sat there for a while, bantering over chocolate cookies, before we had endeavored to our very last mission of defiance together. It was our last day of high school and it was rather strange - the way in which the lastness of it had managed to make the mundane so exciting.
A group of people seems to exist who invariably hate endings and, from what I acquired, it looks like they hold the majority. I, for that matter, am not one of them. It’s not like I love endings or anything - that would be plain dumb, not to mention depressing. It is only that I don’t loathe them inherently. I do appreciate change - and I’ve come to believe that it is the endings that give such a great extent of meaning to whatever thing they are an ending of. I have always cherished that feeling when you finish a great book and your throat constricts only ever so slightly and the reverie renders you entirely speechless, leaving you to stare blankly. It is only on the last page that the book is finally perceived as a whole - and it matters. Right there, right then - God, how it matters. And hence, I would argue, my monomania with closure.