I am one of those few people who don’t understand the idea of closure as nothing more than when something is done/gone/over, it just is, nothing more.  No need to ask, no need to analyze. It’s gone. Zilch. Nada. Searching for explanations for why things ended, especially if unfavorably, is just an exercise in self-flagellation and no matter how much one tries to process  the events that led to any sad ending is mostly about wanting to come up with a possible explanation to the question, “Why did it happen?” It’s the curious who usually need closures and not the ones who have actually been involved. It is what it is, as the cliche goes.
Closures are better done in private, and the discovery of Ted Hughes’ poem about the last weekend of Sylvia Plath’s life sheds light on his remorse over his former wife’s suicide. Maybe this is the closure that the public has been waiting for all along. I still don’t understand closure.
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