To him, art was about the ending. A definite, often dramatic one. Whether it was a love story or a novel, or a film. Usually, someone or something had to die, at least metaphorically, in order for him to find that special sense of immortality and art that some of us can relate to.
That’s why his stories often ended that way. With a death of some sort. That’s why his relationships often ended with him obstinately insisting on the impossibility of those relationships. He would tell her something like “If you only knew how much I’ll miss you…”.
He needed to feel like life was larger than a simple collection of events, which could unfold one way or the other, based on choice or common sense. Life simply had to be more stirring, so he sought many, smaller grand exits to counter the larger, more terrifying end that was normality.
He became a storyteller, and he also made up stories within his real life so that it would feel more electrifying. And he also wrote stories about fictitious characters who made up stories in their real life, so he wouldn’t have to fully admit to himself he was this character.
But that’s the beauty of art, he said. That blurry line between fiction and reality, where imagination enriches an average life, and where a work of fiction reminds the average thinker of how grand life could be… or perhaps really is after all.