Endings...

 

I hate endings. They are sad and life changing. I was watching this movie ‘a man called Otto’  the other day and I didn’t want it to end. I would have gone on and on and on. I now understand why girls cry at movies (yeah, it’s that bad).

Where is all this coming from? Well, I am seated in my brother’s house. Alone. He is moving soon and the place feels so empty. No one is home and it’s as if they are avoiding being here. So I sit in silence. The silence is magnified by the absence of the ticking of his wall clock that was always five minutes ahead. I hated that clock but it's the thing I want to see more than anything now. I loved hating it. Isn’t it funny how insignificant the bad times are at the end?

My head drifts to our last day of high school, seated at the counter of an entertainment spot with no single care in the world. All that mattered was that moment right then. The shouting and screaming of my friends, the frenzied air of teenage naivety, was the only thing that mattered. We were free souls at that exact moment. I wish we had shouted louder and that we had danced longer; I wish we had been crazier. It was one of those nights I will remember with an aging smile when gray hair comes and my organs begin to fail.

Back to the present.

The night sets in and nobody is home yet. Maybe they’re familiarizing themselves with the new normal, or maybe they are seated somewhere, just like me, trying to make sense of reality but you cannot tell me that three people can coincidentally be out of the house at ten in the night a few days before they part ways.

As I head out I ask myself why I hate endings and I hate endings simply because the memories and the love of what was now live as ghosts in the museum of your heart.