Storybook Ending

I often allow myself to fall victim to a certain faith in providence and justice; not so much in short term things, but in the future. As though, like any three act performance, my experience is destined to play out in an orderly and finite fashion. I feel, shamefully, that it is a tendency shared by many, as some sort of imaginative coping mechanism with the awareness of life’s fragility. Not only is there little reason, from a relative standpoint, to not embrace such a plain hope of experiencing a fulfilling story…but it is often supported by those few among us who have actualized it. Members of the elderly that we know, who have done so…or characters in an epic play, or story, who imitate such. To fall short, and by the wayside, is a fate that none imagine for themselves…for, if not just, than excusable and understandable reasons. The fact remains, however, that some are destined for such; not those of whom it is inescapable, but those who error along the way, or have the way errored for them. If some must suffer it beyond control or premonition, then we are all at risk for such. Sometimes we perish with that which we want most still just beyond our fingertips; our eyes wide only with confusion as we are interrupted, for the last time, from our efforts to reach out and claim that which we seek. Sometimes lives are not three act stories, but rather simply worthless anecdotes…not even worthy of the standard one hundred or so years that a person who has passed is generally allowed to remain, if not in the thoughts of others, than on a slowly fading tombstone…