Last Blogger Of The Day To Weigh In on the "Six Feet Under" Final Episode. -- NO SPOILERS.

First off, there are no spoilers here so you can read safely.

I cry about things. It's okay to tell you that I think, because if you tell me you don't cry at things that you see or hear, then I can't talk to you about what it means to be alive. I can't talk to you about what it means to stare breathless at the edge of the Grand Canyon, what it feels like to climb the rocks in Joshua Tree, to dive from three stories high into a rock quarry in Stowe, Vermont.

I can't talk to you about getting mugged at gunpoint on the streets of New York, walking home barefoot and without my backpack. I can't talk to you about hugging my mother and father before I get on the plane to go back to New York, what it feels like to advertise a show for weeks and end up playing to four people. I can't talk to you about how it felt the first time I heard and understood Bruce Springsteen's words as he sang "There were ghosts in the eyes of all the boys you sent away/They haunt this dusty beach road in the skeleton frames of burned out Chevrolets", what it's like to lose someone you love, the moment you first knew you were truly in love.

If you tell me you can't cry, then I can't talk to you about any of these things, and I can't really explain to you the feeling that I had when I watched what would be the very last episode of HBO's multiple-Emmy-winning series Six Feet Under last night, one of three television shows I followed religiously over the past several years. I don't own a television, but I always found a way to be near one in order to catch up with what I missed.

Occasionally, there are bright moments in the fog of television's advertising-driven frostbitten leftovers that maybe only tears can really explain.

When something makes you feel a way you've never felt before that you can ever recall, it's a bit like being a child I think. When we are kids, we don't have the words to explain how we feel, we don't know how to express ourselves or what is happening to us, and so we cry. As we get older, learn more about the world, become more exposed to harsh realities and embittered by them, the less we cry. We're old pros at being able to keep a stiff upper lip, and God forbid you're a man who cries. That will never do. Men who cry are still fags in one-and-two-syllable America.

Watching the last ten minutes of the show last night, I cried a mixed set of tears. Partially tears of joy, partially tears of happiness. It was as if I had rediscovered some part of myself that I no longer wanted to admit existed and was forced into dealing with some very difficult issues regarding my relationships with my family and close friends. At first, there was an emptiness and a sadness that rushed over me, but as the moments continued through the ending, I came face to face with, inevitably, the fine line between the destiny we choose and the destiny that chooses us.

If it's all the same, I'd rather not give away any spoilers (I've given out none so far). Maybe it's all the time I've invested in watching the show's characters develop and grow, a sense of longing to have that time back now as if I've been cheated once again by the idiot box. But more likely, it's the sense of knowing that it doesn't matter what it takes to make me cry anymore.

For me, it is in knowing that I was able to cry about something at all. Like the characters on the show, these tears were a combination of sadness and joy for the fact that it's all over now.

There is no turning back on anything. I am just like you, you see, if for no other reason than the fact that I am where I am at this moment. If it's not enough, I'd beter be prepared to do more than simply cry about it, or else crying about it is all I'll ever be able to do.