I always hate that feeling of emptiness when something ends. Sometimes it’s a good book, a great TV series, and sometimes it’s 6 months of dedication to performing with a wonderful group of people. I’ve lost count how many times I have lived through the end of a season, but the feeling is always the same. Sometimes it’s a minute twinge, leaving me with a slight sigh and the thought of “oh well, I’ll miss that” for a week or so. And sometimes it’s a big hole in the pit of my stomach that leaves me with an insatiable desire to immediately fill that place in my life with some other activity. No matter how many times I live through it, it never becomes possible to sufficiently prepare myself for the inevitable and abrupt halt. All things come to an end, and for all things that are good, it’s this finite quality that makes them even more precious.
I live in the moment the best I can, and when it’s all over I am left with only memories. Asking “how did it feel to live this particular minute or the next?” will never bring to the surface a sensation that compares to the original.
We are bound to the passage of time, something I have always had difficulty coping with. And while I feel obligated to conclude these thoughts with something uplifting and profound, I have little to offer. Yes, every experience ends and my existence will persist, but there is never any guarantee that something else will begin or that anything that does will be good.
