There's no emotional Hugh Grant running up to perform in a school concert to save the day, no magic life changing moment where I run through London in a montage powered by a Coldplay song on a winter's morning, stopping by Big Ben and realising that 'YES! This is it! This is life and i'm living it!'
In the same way, there's also no magic ever supporting and faithful Doctor who holds all the cures. There's no two minute recovery shown by a change in seasons. And there's no instantaneous forgiveness, no sudden normality.
If there's anything i've learnt in the last two weeks it's that. That, and the difference between what is my fault, and what wasn't.
For me, there's no Morgan Freeman voiceover explaining why I did it, no warm tone defining my thoughts and motivations.
That would help because fuck me I have no idea
I wish I did so I could deal with it head on, accept and work on that part of me, like the protagonist who runs out to meet his fate, or works his ass off to get the girl.
In Amelie the shy pale faced girl with the estranged childhood falls in love with the ghost who puts together the passport photos. Essentially a giant game of kiss chase. Life in rose tinted reds and yellows. It's not that. It never will be.
I am the stupidity and the foolishness of the lovesick fool who let himself be floored by the blatant obstacle- that moment half an hour before the end when everything falls apart. No matter how well I know the story- how many times it's been told by every version, in every different scenario, I still have that moment of worry- 'ohshitnoyoucan'tbreakthemupbecausethat'snottrueSHEDIDN'TREALLYCHEATONYOUit'sobviousjusttalktoherbrothercomeoooonnnn'
And then ten minutes before the end it's magically fixed. That's not how it goes in real life, and dear lordy I moan about how unrealistic it is- but I still want it.
I'm not particularly fine. I'm not, but as long as i'm working on getting there, then that's ok. I'm stuck in the obstacle- that moment when Damien Rice or Adele plays in the background and there's a shot of a huddled shadow on a bed in a darkened room, interspersed with flashes of bright memories and huge grins and sunshine and friends and all that stuff. When the lead character realises, I've done it all wrong. I've fucked it up. And now I don't know what to do. They wake up in the night and drink and mope. And then the sassy wise cracking friend or sibling comes along, slaps them round the face, tells them to man up, get over it and deal with it.
That's ok. That's all very well. But that's not quite how it works. I want Doctor Cure-it-all's magic one time fixorama pill, guaranteed instant good health and piece of mind and minty fresh breath. Because I can't change what I did. I have to get over it.
Enough of doctors. Just give me decent sleep. And you to know i've seen how stupid it was, how much I care, how sorry I am. No matter how long. Just that.
The movies always say you don't know what you've got til it's gone. The worst cliche, the cheesiest load of crap since 'he's just not that into you'.
I wish it wasn't true.
