I am a cheater.
I read the endings.
Sometimes I will fast-forward to see the endings.
I usually* (99.99% usually always) go back through and watch back to the beginning, but, sigh, the endings.
The ending. I love a perfect ending. Even if it's messy and uncertain. The ending that comes right when you knew it would. The ending that you knew belonged to the end of the story, but always upon seeing it or reading it, you have confirmation. I've always thought that there is magic in the ending. The resolution in the end is absolute. The ending is the finale. The ending is the Magic.....
But really, the magic, the real magic to the story, of the whole of it, has always been in the middle. Otherwise, stories would only end and begin. There would be no need for a middle. There would only be here it is, or there it was. No music, no cueing up for part 2, or for chapter 9.
The middle is the story. The middle is profound. Full of lessons, and heartaches. It's full of laughing and driving. The middle is the story. The middle is where we see Mr. Darcy walked across the field... The middle is where great love is found, where battles are won, tears are cried, eyes are dried, babies are born; in the middle you find who you are, and learn to live with great delight. In the middle a man made it to the moon.
I cannot cannot get to the ending, and so I've been in the middle, forgetting to look for the magic.
But it's been here, all along...
The magic is found in a warm room full of friends, in a message, in a memory, in the sunrise, in the light of the moon, in the sound of a guitar. The magic is in the coming home, the turkey cooking in the oven. There's magic in every day music and in every day songs. The magic is in making messes, and making up, walking in the twilight. The magic is in the meeting...The magic is there in the middle.
I need to start wearing glitter,