I have written fondly of Star Wars previously in this blog. So it was that, Thursday evening, at a movie theatre whose bar and restaurant upfront were blaring cantina music, and whose crowd of people contained a veritable onslaught of people in Star Wars clothing, I found myself eagerly anticipating the movie that I had been clinging to for so long, in a fictional universe that I have loved like no other, and continue to love like no other.
There was a period, without about 30 minutes to go in the film, that I realized that I did not want it to stop. I was in love, although one has to ask if I ever fell out of love in the first place (nope). I went home with dreams of Star Wars floating in my head, of how much I'd love to create a Star Wars story one day, of Jedi and Sith and bounty hunters and the like.
I would see the movie again, on the following Sunday, an evening show where I adored the movie just like the first time, warts and all, it is not perfect but it is perfect for me, I suppose, isn't that what relationships are really, anyways?
And yet even the afterglow of a galaxy far, far away can't diminish the reality of the lead actors being younger than me, of them being born into a world where they can live out their dreams, of the reality that I will never create something that will touch someone so, that I will never do anything of significance, that most people don't and won't, until they die and are gradually forgotten; and so then why am I attached to the idea of significance, when a mere 50 years is all I have left, and death is a much longer state? We all are, I suppose, headstones aren't for the dead but the living, but it's true that this living person will never create a galaxy far, far away, much less one near.