I have spent the past few days watching movies – because I felt alone sometimes, because I was blue more often, and mostly because I needed a push to cry freely. That’s the weird thing, with tears: they tend to appear when you least expect it and when it is inconvenient if you hold them in too long. I cried at restaurants, on the phone, in the middle of the street, and even after a great laugh following an even greater joke. And still, whenever I am alone, nothing comes up. Willingly or not, I find myself out of them.
I said I felt alone sometimes, which is different than to know you might really be. It is also different than to say I hate it always. These days, feeling alone starts resembling freedom a bit, because this is when I write and when I get curious. I am also lucky to be able to mostly get out of this place whenever I feel like it – everyone I love is but a call or a flight of stairs away. I said I felt like it sometimes, when I’ve overthought myself into oblivion, but I am not and never actually am, truly on my own.
It’s just, I guess it is such a rare thing to find out that the person in front of you is going through the exact same journey. And I guess you’d resent it, perhaps, as if their pain could take away some of the righteous anger and frustrations associated to yours; I guess you’d keep telling yourself they just don’t get it the way you do. I wouldn’t know. All I can say is, in the anachronistic window that art opens up, understanding and humility form with less judgment and more safety than this world actually contains. People have actually felt like this or close enough – this feeling transcends time and space, and seems infinite.
I have spent the past few days watching movies because it feels surreal that I can put an image on the many feelings that roam freely inside of me. That, suddenly, all of this ache and this melancholy and this affection have colours. That these random shapes and faces on a screen can mirror so accurately the shadows and lights behind my closed eyelids. That the lessons of these scripts can so easily turn into comforting voices guiding me just enough on how to deal with all of this – but never forcing me to get to conclusions I don’t want to draw.
I believe you learn from everyone you meet. The baker wakes up early, and suddenly you realise you could never be an early bird – or make bread. The person walking in front of you stepped in dog shit, and you get an indication of which side of the pavement you should avoid. Everyone has lessons, as inconsequential or unintended as they might be, and some people might feel the urge to voice theirs louder than others – out of fear, boredom, or out of a special kind of bravery I wish I had and admire. So I guess it makes sense, that I watch those movies, and I read those books, and I listen to these songs on repeat for a month before the lyrics truly set in. I try to understand the lessons of those who came before me – so I can decide which conclusions to draw, who I would like to be, and how I might mess up next.
That’s what good art does to you: it expands your world.
andstillwedream 