After Lost, I think I will probably watch less TV.  At least for awhile.

I’ll feel a little lonely, wondering how my friends are doing.  Did Sawyer ever meet his daughter?  Does alt-Jack and his supertalented son continue to exist?  Is Freckles still single?

Whenever I meet a polar bear I’ll wonder if he likes the tropics.  If I see a string of numbers, I’ll do my best to forget it so it doesn’t drive me crazy. When I see black smoke I’ll listen closely for a strange mechanical noise.  I will stay away from the shadows of statues.  I will hold up black lights to doors in search of secret maps.

Will I ever had watching parties full of screaming and theorizing ever again?  Will I ever experience instant kinship with a stranger who is also wondering what’s behind the hatch, why food pallets fall from the sky or how Jacob’s house keeps moving?

No, I have a feeling that I’ll keep an island sized hole in my heart next to the Battlestar shaped chasm.  I’m hopeful that no one will try to fill it soon.  With the valiant yet unsatisfying  exception  of Flash Forward, Hollywood has avoided trying to clone the beguiling mix of storytelling, character development, science fiction and mystery that set Lost apart.  I hope that no one tries to do it again anytime soon.

The saga may be floating off into syndication, but don’t worry, I’ll keep pushing the button to keep from destroying the world.