I like a good story's start, don't get me wrong.
But my favorite beginning always comes at the end. I love the buzzing white noise of happily-ever-afters that follow like a blank sheet of paper, so full of empty importance. I throw my soul into conjuring the most breathtakingly, achingly beautiful scenarios that could ever possibly follow and to forever choose to believe that somewhere - in some galaxy, some song, some time, something, some way I cannot understand - they are real.
It's not that different from believing in God, I suppose.
We all want to believe that a beginning comes at the close. That our hearts are more stardust than science and are eternal in a way we can only really feel in our bones. Ask me for proof and I'll plant you gardens until you're ready to see magic bloom. I'll pull pages from my favorite anthologies, fold them into proper paper airplanes and fly little holy letters in your direction until you feel the collective weight of every breath that has ever been entirely exhaled at the last lines of, "To Begin With, The Sweet Grass."
Can you feel that heaviness in your hands? Are you strong enough to lift it to eye-level and tell it you love it to its center, though you don't know who or what it is or why?
It's not that different from falling in love, I suppose.
Maybe we were born to believe.