How you end is how you begin.
I don't know why it's hard. Because it's an edge? Because it's unyielding? I do know this: The lines exist, between the coming and the going, the starting and the finishing.
The lines lace the backbone of the thing, laying the tracks. There's a finality to their thud. You think the ending can't be changed, but then you go back over them. Again and again. And the lines take shape. And the shape holds the dream. And it's real, after all.