The end of Hell in a Cell

This was written stream of consciousness.

I just don't know. I just don't know how that happened. How does a man lose victory to a ghost and his angel? We had it all figured out. This was the end. Everything had built to this moment: Rollins v Ambrose in the Cell. It looked like we wanted it to. If made me feel like I wanted it to. The spots. The weapons. The violence. It was perfect.

Until it wasn't.

Theater at it's core is an emotional medium. Wrestling, as theater's more ebullient cousin, tends to trade emotion for visceral pain. I mean in the literal sense there are men and women getting thrown around a ring for our amusement. This doesn't have the subtlety of Robert De Niro talking to the mirror in Taxi Driver; this smashes you over the head with sensory overload.

And then there are those moments in wrestling where everything crosses and the light shines down briefly before traipsing off to parts unknown. Tonight was one of those moments. Dean Ambrose and Seth Rollins weren't characters in a never ending play; they were lightning bolts connected at their apex for that brief moment. This was wrestling's everything. This hasn't been seen since Taker-HHH at Mania 28. This was bigger than the medium.

Then the angel of death appeared. I don't know why Bray Wyatt returned when he did and I don't know how he did it. I don't know how WWE made it look like the network feed dropped. I don't know how the hologram emanated up from the floor below. I don't know why Rollins wasn't attacked. I don't know.

But I felt. I sit here now, 20 minutes later, pried out of the position I sat in for 15 minutes, to write this. I felt emotions. I can't describe them to you because I don't know what they are. I couldn't speak. I just rocked gently on my couch and felt. I still don't know what I felt then or what I feel now as the fallout begins to thin. I just know that the ending of Hell in a Cell made me feel in a way I can't describe. I can give the event no higher compliment.

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