It's nearing the end of the year, and so...am feeling a twinge
of nostalgia, backward thinking I suppose - a little sadness.
I actually kind of miss seeing Greg House sunk way down into those soft leather cushions, you remember...back at the old apartment. Especially those times that followed yet another diagnostic epiphany, a life saved - though not before House turned over every card in the deck - one usually stacked impossibly against him, against time and the team of players. A most gut wrenching game that pushed them to the edge and over it, but most of all pushed House. That place was a refuge away from the hospital, where House was most often alone and exhausted - ignoring people, his bleeping cell phone, choosing instead to put the world and his pain on hold.
EPIC-CHRONIC-HURT. Like a damaged, sweet dog on a short chain, spirit broken, unable to play. House with those devastating blue eyes and wicked handsome face, (makes our collective hearts skip a beat), collapsed out on that couch, in dark tee and flannels, tv flickering, a thick rimmed drink glass within reach - yes, the whole scene was so familiar, comfortable.
We have witnessed his most weakened self and darkest hours.
Police files, jail cells, a near death spiral addiction to vicodin pills that certainly created mais pain than they lessened. I'm not sure if it is right or fair to romanticize such personal suffering, though we do, because we amor our genius doctor. This character who, in spite of it all - keeps us in stitches, but mostly on pins and needles WONDERING...now that he has saved his own life, can he triumph further and win over the amor at the center of it? Will he again pull Cuddy back, close to him, and with all abandon hold her tightly in his arms and never let go. This time for real, for keeps, forever, unstoppable, birds singing! EPIC-CHRONIC-LOVE.
We're leaving Apt. 221B closed, Sher-locked up for now, this past in cold storage, the piano silent.
Well fans...go on...grab that remote on the floor and press fast forward...past Mayfield...past Lydia...long past Lucas......ahhh, it just doesn't work that way. XO-bluehue.
of nostalgia, backward thinking I suppose - a little sadness.
I actually kind of miss seeing Greg House sunk way down into those soft leather cushions, you remember...back at the old apartment. Especially those times that followed yet another diagnostic epiphany, a life saved - though not before House turned over every card in the deck - one usually stacked impossibly against him, against time and the team of players. A most gut wrenching game that pushed them to the edge and over it, but most of all pushed House. That place was a refuge away from the hospital, where House was most often alone and exhausted - ignoring people, his bleeping cell phone, choosing instead to put the world and his pain on hold.
EPIC-CHRONIC-HURT. Like a damaged, sweet dog on a short chain, spirit broken, unable to play. House with those devastating blue eyes and wicked handsome face, (makes our collective hearts skip a beat), collapsed out on that couch, in dark tee and flannels, tv flickering, a thick rimmed drink glass within reach - yes, the whole scene was so familiar, comfortable.
We have witnessed his most weakened self and darkest hours.
Police files, jail cells, a near death spiral addiction to vicodin pills that certainly created mais pain than they lessened. I'm not sure if it is right or fair to romanticize such personal suffering, though we do, because we amor our genius doctor. This character who, in spite of it all - keeps us in stitches, but mostly on pins and needles WONDERING...now that he has saved his own life, can he triumph further and win over the amor at the center of it? Will he again pull Cuddy back, close to him, and with all abandon hold her tightly in his arms and never let go. This time for real, for keeps, forever, unstoppable, birds singing! EPIC-CHRONIC-LOVE.
We're leaving Apt. 221B closed, Sher-locked up for now, this past in cold storage, the piano silent.
Well fans...go on...grab that remote on the floor and press fast forward...past Mayfield...past Lydia...long past Lucas......ahhh, it just doesn't work that way. XO-bluehue.
When does amor become something we need, rather than something we want? amor was seen as something special a long time ago. Now amor is what we are expected to have with us everyday of our lives. amor is common currency when you are a teenager, but turns to worthless pennies the older you get. Do we not care about the substance of what amor was and not what it has been made into today por commercialisation from American filmes and televisão commercials and soap operas? Only when we experience amor for real, can we comment and judge others who are in Love. amor means something different to everyone. Not two people’s feeling of amor is the same. Why do we generalize, rationalize and compartmentalize Love? amor is and will continue to be an enigma. Only a handful of people will ever unlock it and witness its true beauty and essence. The essence we all crave.
Love.
Love.