That Can't Be The End

I can’t even think of anything that rhymes with 'Happy Endings'. Just a potential trauma or tragedy left pending; something incomplete that needs mending, or broken that needs welding. To tell the truth, I run it through my trillion possible synaptic pathways but it doesn’t compute. A Happy Ending, what’s that then?  A neverending happy ending is a paradox of bollocks that makes me vomit in dollops.  It’s solipsism of the highest order, I oughtn’ta.  Happy thoughts, happy places.  Smiley folk with smiling faces.  Heart-warming kittens in soft woollen mittens and shining silver linings undermining my ‘Blimey, that’s unlikely!’  Doubtless kissing, subterfuge-free hugs, fearless ***** full of faultless frisson.  Someone might have died but it’s alright, someone else is pregnant; on the grave the grass is lush and resplendent.  A kiss in the rain or holding hands in the sunset, with a choir of angels accompanied by trumpets.  Just waking up to a day that’s full of promise, that’s the hope to which we all pay homage.  What I need to learn is to think short term, to avoid the consequences and returns, forget about fairness and taking turns.  Worrying about the exit strategy will be the death of me.
 
Happy Endings are temporary.  They make sequels necessary.
CrookedMan CrookedMan
46-50
Jan 12, 2013