Movie Script Ending

That's the most beautiful, and troubling thing about memories, is that they are so malleable. Even to someone who is true, and sincere, and honest, you are able to edit, and cut, and dilute, or enhance in any which way, all the while the memory remains valid, and more or less in tact. It makes me nervous just reflecting on how comfortable I was. I had always been the squeamish, squirmy type. Now in times of despair or desperation, I take from those events, whichever sentiment will give me solace (or torture me further, if that's instead what I am looking for). It's not even that I am misremembering, falsely, the strengths or weaknesses that I possessed, they were there, but now that is all that I embodied, when the memory is isolated. It is wrong to glorify? Is an occurrence any more or less grander than the sensations given by it to the person(s) experiencing it? Surprisingly, it is no longer the sadness regarding the way in which stories played out that haunts me, but the residing of the emotions, the resilience, the uncoincidental mutuality and serendipitous nature of connection, and loss. It was reaffirmed tonight, something in which I believe in, you are either in sync with a person (or what have you), or you simply are not in tune, and though our feelings may not be harmonized at this moment, you brought upon, to me what is what you were feelings, and due to my responsiveness, I now find myself lying here (on the same page as you or not), and hoping in my heart of hearts that you are not sad. There was this definite shift, come age, or maturity, I do not know, but I saw myself elevate from profound depths of melancholy, and rise, and rise, possibly right into the clouds. I am nearly stuck in this realm of magic, mystery and awe. The veil was lifted, and now I am very much unclear as to what I was even observing beforehand. Now, there are dimensions, and universes within each moment, action or word. The clairvoyance is paradoxically disorienting, because there is more, but how much more? Where does it end, and where does it begin? I used to be so drawn to the humanity, the grit, the realness, and raw intensity of people, of myself. I find myself only interested in the wordless, and indescribable these days. Truly, I spend each day in my head, in search of something so intangible, the oneness, the love.
The last time that we spoke I know it was both a bit jarring, and illuminating for you, for in the time prior to us speaking I had become more of a character to you. I was an idea, a concept, a reason, and a time. You turned me into something so far from human, and I loved you so much for it.

(Strangely, it turned out that the acknowledgment (acceptance) of power was in fact more daunting, than gratifying. I swear to god, I am unsure whether I would prefer to have this revoked or explained.)