1/5s | f4.5 | 18mm | Jefferson Memorial, Washington DC, 2008.
For the past weeks or so, I've harboured a lot of anger, enough to make me clench my hand into a fist involuntarily sometimes and swing harder than I should in a friendly game of tennis. It's an unhealthy obsession but I'm still miffed about how LOST ended.
It was a tear-inducing denoument (mainly because of the melancholic soundtrack as Jack walks through the bamboo groves) and a dissapointing one. Promises broken (the flash-sideways world is purgatory?) and loose threads were left hanging (where did the polar bear come from, among other minor mysteries); it was a betrayal of my unstinting affection for what was hitherto the best TV show. The mere thought of the finale could send me spiralling into depression and listlessness.
Like all good relationships, what we had was of a love-hate nature - countless good times (Richard Alpert's backstory was particularly good and touching) and the inevitable bad ones. What led to the dissapointing end was perhaps unreasonable expectations; I was hoping that uncovering the secrets of the island could lead to the answer to life and eternal happiness.
LOST ends with the characters moving on to a better place. Maybe that's the answer to life - the ability to let go and move on. And maybe it's not the end that counts but the story that was.