The fear in the end. The fear of ending something that once started. The fear of not recovering the warm feeling of reunion, of the routines that were promised eternal, of the looks and voices that have become part of you. The fear of not having the full assurance that another principle will come that is worth going through. The same fear that suffocates you when you look at the stars, on a dark night, and wonder what lies beyond? And beyond? And even more? And then something in your head clicks and you collapse knowing little, stunned. Fearfully.
Starting a story is a leap of faith, like the invisible bridge in Indiana Jones. We enter the stories as children in love, curious, looking for the gaze of the dark-haired girl who plays in the park. They are primary feelings, passions that beat in every living being: love, doubt, courage, self-improvement, family … We mix so much with history that we make it our own. Suddenly we are London gangsters or space sailors or stylish publicists. We are us and we are them, the ones on the screen. And then one night, it ends. End. It’s over. And the hatred begins.
We are the generation of hate. We hate even with a smile on our face. We generate hatred. We exchange the love and passion we felt for a story, for resentment and anger. We blame the one who wrote, the one who directed, the one who played. “What a final shit,” we tweeted to remove the hate. And in stories, as in life, hatred is born from fear in the end. We do not own the end and the end is what it is. The culprit of the disappointment is you, who keep thinking that there is no end. There is an end because there is a beginning and the stars, at night, are beautiful.
Yes, I did like the ending of ‘Dark’.