I have made you suffer, left you waiting in the rain.
I was chasing demons in the desert of my pain.
You know me better than the poison in my veins.
So, my love, remember when god forgets my name.
She’s girl that makes you believe that god is real. The sort that makes a monster feel human. So when I ask, “Why are you so soft and loveable?” I’m not just saying words. I’ve come to terms with this in my way. I write. I cry. And I sleep. I read books and I buy books. I bury myself in work and I spend time on Tumblr looking at cute pictures of cute things.
The open-ending once comforted me. When Bill Murray whispers into Scarlett Johansson’s ear, a well of emotion surfaces. All these years later, I spoiled it by reading what he said. “I have to be leaving, but I won’t let that come between us, OK?” When a series comes to a close, the open-ending is often used. Luke and Lorelai share a kiss in the rain. Rachel gets off the plane. Same goes for the closing of a season. The Governor isn’t dead and Woodbury comes to the prison. Hank Moody walks to Karen’s door and begins to knock, much like the ending of Sideways. Will she be there? Will she understand? Will all these years end with them, finally, together?
Open-endings comfort us. They help us write our own endings to the stories, the writer’s gift to the audience. Does Sid find Cassie? Does Cook kill Dr. Foster? Do the kids turn out alright?
We want the endings that make us happy, never the ones that make us suicidal. We force ourselves to believe Ross and Rachel are raising Emma happily. That nothing bad came between Luke and Lorelai. That Frasier is happy choosing Charlotte over San Fransisco. The only open-ended finale that set the bar high in reality was Seinfeld, as the show about nothing and everything ends with the characters sitting in a jail cell.
So what has me suddenly both manic and depressed? Inspiration? Caffeine? The fact that I’m listening to Beth Hart‘s song on a continuous loop?
And ex-girlfriend once said I live my life as a movie. An actor without an audience. Furthest from the truth. I’ve often said that life was too much like a TV or book series. Even at the ending, it’s not finite. It’s not even infinite. It’s just the ending of one slice of our existence. Open-ended for our creative responses.
Last night, a friend offered her ear and shoulder. I haven’t spoken to her in such a long time, not in that way. We managed a couple of comments on Facebook and a text here and there, but nothing grander than that. And it’s mostly my fault. Okay. It’s entirely my fault.
So will I take her up on the offer? Let’s see if the spinning top stops.