I wonder what else is supposed to happen. Often, when you watch a television series and follow it for all its seasons, there is a looming second-hand regret that the end was just a futile extension of the story, that the character arcs were all wrapped well in some earlier episode in some other season. “It could have ended there, and things would have been fine,” you’d comment often as you sat in some bar or cafe, discussing the show unprompted. That is precisely how it feels these days. The only stories to begin are new ones. No old stories linger. At least, not any I count. Everything in the works, everything in motion, is now resolved with the unmatched finesse of a virtuoso. But then, the nature of life is to keep going. It does not care for the narratives we weave. It only cares for the randomness with which we arrive and leave, so our stories will forever be abrupt and incomplete.
There is disappointment in this and fear if you are ever where I am, when there is nothing left but to begin anew, but there is also freedom. This is, of course, no television show plagued by a room of overpaid and burned-out writers. It is a life being lived actively, day after day. The onus is on us to write the story, and if the story beats in my life are any indication, it may not be the happiest story despite its moments of joy, but it sure makes for a compelling narrative. At least, I’d like to believe so, given how many times people ask me if I will ever write a book inspired by the last decade. Perhaps I will, but I am leaning towards letting it all be some kind of secret history, never to be shared. It makes for an intriguing character at best, especially when I find myself in this not-so-unusual position of beginning again.