On Resolutions in Fiction

If I had to write a realistic resolution to a story, I would have to write until the end of time. Life carries on; each action worth writing about reverberating on, carrying on in your memories, in the people around you. If there was a resolution, it would be death. The destruction of the tiny pieces of string you carry around in your pockets, the souvenirs of other people’s lives. But still, those people carry on, lives begetting lives, actions influencing action and you look back to see you (yes you, no matter how insignificant you feel), composed of stardust and long dead dinosaurs, reflecting the past and begetting the future. There is no true end, no resolution, simply a turning away from the known and facing the unknown. That is all there is.

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