My favorite stories end without endings. They’re neither cliffhangers nor unresolved, but they’re bittersweet and very real. It is in these kinds of stories that I see who I am.
I’ve spent my life looking for distraction, for approval, for anything to chase away the apathy. A sad story is like a punch to the gut. The pain jolts me awake, and for a moment, I remember how small and fragile I really am.
I will never find this thing that everyone is supposed to have. Call it happiness or happyness, but it is in the pursuit of it that I lose sight of who I am. A life without happiness is a life without movement, and sad stories teach me how to be still. Sometimes, I need to be still.
As the new year approaches, I hope for bigger and brighter things. I always hope for bigger and brighter things, because even if I’m bad at being a human being, I’ve gotten quite good at pretending to be one.
2013 has been difficult, but I wouldn’t want to change a thing. Sometimes, you have to fall to pieces before you can pick yourself up. Maybe this time, as I’m gluing my bits and pieces back together, I can finally see the cracks for what they are: stories without endings, stories of a life lived with enough depth to become bittersweet and real.