Thinking of endings is not so painful when they haven’t sunk deep in your heart yet. There is no clear future, anyway, so it’s not as if there had been a substantial change. The present from now on, that’s what changes… Come to think of it, even foggy things are subject to violent transition.
The worst endings are those which you’re unsure of. Is it over? I’ve written the last full stop to this story, but… so much more can be written on the subject, so many words can still come out of the hero’s lips. Yet, not all of them will be pleasant. Well, you don’t write anymore when you’ve already had a happy ending. After all, nobody wants to know how Prince Charming ran out of milk one morning and blamed it all on the Princess, who used the opportunity to show her husband the lipstick stains on his purple cloak and the very white (albeit rough) palm of her hand. But this is no happy ending, nor its epilogue.
This time I think I’m sure. I think. You see? I’m not sure. I’ve blabbered once again, and it’s all due to this sort of self-imposed silence. I wish I could turn this heart of mine into something useful, but I just let it pump words out, sealed in my body. Characters go astray as they navigate scarlet torrents in search for tissues to nest in. There goes a T, anchored in the diaphragma, causing me hiccups. And that A has found its way to pierce a thigh and generating an uneasiness when I walk. And that O, so round, spinning in my brain, slowly cutting through bravery and turning bicycles into untamed dragons. If only blood-letting were still practiced,… I’d gladly give my leg to the literary leech and watch as an old porcelain bowl fills up with blood and tears and feelings and thoughts.
The end. It doesn’t hurt so much when the audience in the cinema remains in front of the silver screen, waiting not for the sequel but for the same movie to resume. Nevertheless… is anybody planning to call the boy at the projector to tell everyone that the show is over? And if they did, what then? What is a lone cinema enthusiast to do with his time and a pair of empty pockets?
Perhaps, around the corner, the lonely movie-goer will bump into that bashful girl who was sitting beside him all through the show. And maybe, after a few seconds of awkward silence and fleeting glances, he will recognize in her the beautiful heroine the whole theater was cheering at. We’re not all what we seem. We’re not all what we pretend to be. We’re so much more (and much better) than that.
The end.
Somebody please turn on the projector and let us know what will happen to the handsome young man after he tells his inconsolable lover that she must believe him when he says things are getting better—because, come to think of it, they are.