Was it always so simple?

I am a huge Lost addict, that is not news. I have written something about this series before, here and here but I haven't done any serious Lost fans theorizing.
As the ingenious series is approaching an end in 23rd of May however, and discussions on the net increase in number, complexity and literary credibility, I had an idea myself. As I am a fairly mainstream person, the column I am mostly following is Doc Jensen in EW, whose latest ideas had me thinking.

One of the most prominent literary references of Lost is that of Alice in Wonderland. As in Alice, my other two favourite tales for children, Miyazaki's Spirited away and Michael Ende's Neverending story also deal with a very important theme that is becoming increasingly relevant in Lost: keeping one's identity through memory, through remembering oneself. To cut a long story short, Alice, Chihiro and Bastian in the three respective pieces get lost/stranded in a magical/imaginary world and can only return to their own world, the real world if they manage to not forget who they really are in these magical worlds. In Lost, our heroes are stranded on this magical island and now with the sideways world they have these split lives. The only way they can come to their own world, the only way they can reconnect with their other halves -in this case their other half selves (Plato's Symposium anyone?) is through anamnesis, as Doc Jensen rightly points out in his column in another ingenious Platonic reference. Plato is clearly a major inspiration for the Lost creators (cf. the quite literal scene with the cave in 'Recon' of this season).

So, to cut the extensive name-dropping and to wrap things up: perhaps the answer to the question' what is Lost really about', I could provide my own spin on things. Lost is about being true to oneself, to one's true character and values and this connection, this memory of oneself is the only thing that can set us people really free, not just from the magical island as in Lost, but in life in general. And since it all makes sense so beautifully, read this again in my earlier post from this month where I reconnect with my roots.

Sometimes moodiness

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old … I grow old …
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Give me that slow knowing smile (slowly)

The familiar: we always love more what we know best.

There is a deep, meaningful comfort and happiness when we are with people we know well, in places we know. When this happens to me, I feel that I am in some deep state of togetherness with my oldest deepest self. The older parts of me, the ones that are deeper, they are the ones that come out when I am with my parents, my family, my cousins. One professor of theatre once compared the characters and the plays oS Shakespeare to onions that have many layers. The comparison is not too new, I know, but i think it's also valid for people in general. We are born and in the beginning there is only the core of our character: nature. Then we grow up and we form our outer layers: nurture. The core always needs to be accessible though, always. And this is when familiarity comes into play: when you are with your family, with the people that know you best, in the places that you were playing as a child, you cannot escape from that core. You cannot pretend you're all layers. The stubborn child that you were once upon a time comes out again, and that's such a relief. No filtering, no nothing, just you and your core.

That's one of the reasons I love being home - it reminds me of who is me.

Not the me who teaches and tries to write papers.
Not the me who goes to nice dinners with colleagues.
Not the me who shops posh clothes.
Not the me who is a sensible, fake-lefty, essentially capitalist adult.

But the me I've left behind in Greece, the child who runs barefoot in the sand eating easter cookies.
And my mothers eyes always give me that knowing smile, when she recognises that child every time I go home... And I am happy because I know that she is still here, that child, underneath all these layers, she is still here, safe, in Greece.