I didn't really know what agita meant until I looked it up. You see, I'm suffering the symptoms -- the anxiety, the stress, the heartburn, the stomach rumblings. All thanks to the impending premiere of Lost's final season this upcoming Tuesday, February 2nd.
Knowing that an epic television show's run is coming to an end is always sad, and sometimes more so when it's a show ending at the right time. Yes, you read that correctly, and let me explain: the Lost producers were smart to have an end date in mind -- in fact, it's something other TV showrunners should consider more regularly. As they say, don't overstay your welcome (case in point: the final season of the X-Files). There is a specific story being told here, and with a set finale date, there's a very pointed structural unraveling of the plot -- which is especially important for a show as complex as this one. I will miss this landmark TV program infuriating my brain on a weekly basis, but I feel strongly that six seasons is enough and that it was done right. I'm sad to see it go.
However, I am not just sad. Oh no. I am rip-roaring ready to go. I expect the premiere will blow my mind, as well as every episode thereafter. But as I said, I am stressed. Very stressed. Will all my questions be answered? Will I even understand any of the answers? Did Carlton Cuse and Damon Lindelof really know where this show was going all along? Will we feel cheated? Rewarded? Desolate? Gleeful? Oh God, the agita is getting worse...
Think about that first season of Lost, a truly original television sensation that seemed so simple: just some people stranded on an island after a plane crash. At its core, the show then was about survival -- "live together or die alone" as Jack told us.
But now? I can't even begin to articulate what Lost is about. In fact, I'm not even going to try. I'm just going to take some heartburn medicine and enjoy the final ride.