We fancy the first act. It’s beautiful, it’s thrilling, it’s unimaginable. Soon enough it flails, it becomes boring and predictable. We get tired of ourselves or we get disappointed with the grave discrepancy between what was expected and what came about. We get hurt and sometimes we hurt people. But it is the denouement that we often crave for, the forgiveness, the catharsis, the epiphany. But all these are just luxury. There are stories that gets cut in medias res, and we have to accept that there’s no plot twist fast forward nine, twenty years from now. It ends the very moment we realise that we’ve hit a dead spot. We can no more move forward, but we can’t go back either. We aren’t the same anymore and there something substantial that we lost along the way. And we ask, we weep, we start writing and rewriting the last poem, the last song, the last freaking sentence that we’d like to say to that person who changed us as fast as we fell in and out of love. But it can never truly be the last until we finally get that answer to why shit happened, and the saddest thing about it is that there’s no answer to it. But simply that shit happens.
There are questions that demands an answer but the answer falls into the rhetoric. It’s the moral of the story. It’s the open ending that spells closure. It’s what we fail to see because of that tinge of hope that if we get the right answer to that fucking question then maybe we can get it right, flashback to the second act, do what’s right. But believe me or not there’s no wrong or right. Somehow things will probably end the same way even after a thousand versions of it but we’ll never understand that. And that’s the secret of the open end. It’s still an end, just the most cruel of all.