I've got nothing.
I've got the blues because there's no more blue meth. I re-watched the finale, like an estranged lover leafing through old love letters, searching for solace. There's something uniquely saddening when a great television-show ends. The idea that this intangible thing - moving pictures of people projected from a screen - in its absence, can make you feel as though you've lost something. It is as though it creates an addiction to feeling: of anticipation, excitement, affection, fear, frustration, sadness. We feel them everyday in our own lives, yet somehow it's easier to feel them vicariously. As though it were safer that way. Is it that our emotions are more forthright when given to another than when we experience them for ourselves? Or that sharing them, even with someone imagined, fosters a sense of connection capable of releasing us of our loneliness? There's something analogous to love there, but I'm reluctant to type it. That a TV show could cause feelings of love sounds foolish, yet here I am; inconsolable and grieving. My eyes are as dry as a sponge in a September monsoon.
I'm afraid on Friday I might drunk-dial the cast, or send them texts late at night telling them I miss them.
People say I'll find something else to watch, that there are plenty of good shows in the sea. I think things were different between me and Breaking Bad though.
We just had so much chemistry!
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