Lost is over. If you didn't watch the finale, good luck reading a synopsis anytime soon, because I'm pretty sure the Internet is broken due to nerds -- and I say that as endearingly as possible -- flooding message boards worldwide to speculate/complain about the show's final moments. You're just going to get a busy signal. Oddly, it doesn't work the same way for porn. Why is that?
My advice, which you won't read because the Internet is broken: let go. Boone did. Accept. Lost has never been about answers, only questions. Questions that freaks with little time on their hands obsess over then analyze until their sole purpose in life centers around such questions. It's probably why no one loves you.
I loved the finale. Like a hoagie. Like a submarine sandwich. Like a po' boy. There were no pickles, onions, jalapenos, or Walt, but I'm satisfied. The meat was still there*.
I was so touched to see the primary cast members together again. It was, admittedly, a cheap shortcut, but also was it a fitting culmination. But I didn't cry!
Turned out they were dead after all. And Benjamin Linus is God. Or something. Of nothing in particular.
I'm not scared to die anymore.
* My epitaph!