hope takes happiness in two rounds

I'm a harsh critic of the end of things. And that's not to say I have discerning taste. But I find the way things end does not often do justice to their beginnings or middles. I have found this to be a common problem with books. I haven't read fiction in a long time for this reason, though my mind has ached for that distraction. It's an issue with movies, too. I think part of the reason I like old movies so much is that I can give them a let on reality. It's like being on another planet with fabulous dresses made of sequins and mink. Where women go on boats to get some rest and perspective. There are notes pinned to their garments so they remember which coat to wear at dinner. She meets Paul Henreid and together, they crash their car in the mountains. Later on, he lights two cigarettes and gives her one. They blow smoke into a blue embrace. I could go on, but you get the idea. Or maybe you know what I'm talking about.

So I've found that often times, the end of things leaves me wanting more. Things really get going in a story and suddenly, or so it seems, the adventure is over and everyone is...happy. Like that's how it happens. As if happiness were inevitable. As if we weren't all trying to catch a glimpse of it in the ether.

Sometimes, all you have is hope, a most dastardly four-letter word. It's not even the promise of something that will come for certain, if not a long time from now. Hope could last forever. You could die hoping. But who wants to read a book where Romeo and Juliet sit in their opposing castledoms, but a moat away, just hoping they will get the chance to be together. Really, it's better if they meet, bang, see the birds, and off it. It's so much more understandable when you think about it that way.

I have found that the ends of things that make sense to me are the ones that lie awake in a bed of wanting. Dreams are unfulfilled and sometimes, the bad guy gets away. There is sadness and pain for certain. There is contemplation. You are alone, and you're thinking about the choices you have made and how you got there. And wondering if all the choices were right. And my God, some of those choices you've made affect other people. In fact, you've brought some people you love along for this crazy ride called "your life." And what if you've been horribly, fatally wrong? What if you thought you knew but you didn't really? What if there are more choices to make. Better choices. What if you can change things, right now. What if there's something else out there that is meant to be magic for you, where you're not split into halves of compromise. What if there's a world where you fit, se,ttled into the chair meant for you where you can do what you want to do and where there are no questions about the matter. And everyone you love is happy. What if that?

This is where the stories I don't like often end. In a place where the world ahead is a model of the moment where happiness was found. Every day from then on out must be the same. No growth. No character development. No reflection. It's a pudding of a life, really. Like taking your favorite picture and photocopying it again, and again, and again. The colors start to fade; it's never as good as the real thing.

I want an ending that distinguishes hope from happiness. Because hope isn't always easy. It's grasping and furious. I've seen it, and I know that's true. It's confrontational. You can't lie to it. And sometimes, you can't have enough. Some things have to end, and you redefine. To be strong enough for the next race. To keep fighting for the chance to get it right, and not blaming the absence of youth for your apathy. No one is ever too old for this.

I rip myself inside and out to change sometimes, almost for the sport of it. That's not good either. Sometimes the waters can be calm. We can learn some details about our protagonist. Habits and vices. It's important to understand what will come to pass. How can you imagine an ending without the shadow of a past?

But it's the imagining that is important, at least to me. Getting there, to wonder what has happened, and what's behind that door as it opens. The cool bell ringing on the frame signals the entrance of someone. Peek behind the shelf to see, and stay as long as the moment lets you. The end lays beyond the pages or the frame. Listen. Look with me.