I awoke this morning, heart somber with untold goodbyes. If I had to count the numerous times a film or book ending have caused tears to trickle down my cheeks, I’d inevitably declare forfeiture before reaching the list’s conclusion, crying my eyes out once again. The simple memory of each termination makes my eyes water, blurring the rest of my day in a sadistically cathartic manner, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Life has always felt terribly dizzying to me, in ways other than my sudden hypoglycemic fits and blinding blood pressure drops, but cinema and literature have constantly transformed the crippling tornadoes into whimsical escapes. My love for food is probably only supplanted by my eternal endearment for the art of storytelling, the seemingly effortless recounting of what was never there, but feels all too familiar and close to home. I am Alice in Wonderland, Gulliver, Jo March and Huckleberry Finn, I breathe the air they exhale through paper and screen, wipe my eyes from the dreams they refreshingly colour my existence with. Then it all ends, the credits and final song, the index and author’s salute, and I am left there heaving and out of breath, coping with my own reality, one too far from myself, yet forced upon my being.
Do endings really end? My philosophical moment seems to have rung, yet I ponder this very question every day, never quite satisfied with what I’m answered. I don’t believe in endings as I don’t believe in beginnings, we come to this Earth and hop onto this previously drawn continuous cycle, managing to ease ourselves into its worn-out seats. Cycles don’t start, cycles don’t finish, they repeat and renew, our lives turning the wheels in directions we see fit or destined, paving our journey with stories continuously stitched to our own.
I like to think I am the sum of what I’ve read and seen, the journeys I’ve embarked on when I hit “play” or turned to page 1, making every story I’ve meticulously chosen… gloriously live on as I do.