Mental Wanderlust of a Fool

What is it about the movies that I love so much? It’s a whole new different world that I get sucked into, and be a part of, and experience. The photography? The cinematography? Heck I don’t even know what those really mean. It’s not always about the screenplay or the acting. It’s a compendium of different efforts from different fields that work together that creates this affecting tangible spectacle. It is life recreated within life, and I think it is that sheer process of creating or realizing visions and ideas that is magical.

You want someone who will hold hands with you until you get old. You must have been confused. Because that was me.

Now I only know that when you came into my life, you were not alone. Brooding behind you was this thing that kissed my soul as you kissed my lips. Now that you’ve left me, I can see it clearly. But no longer is it separate. Melancholy has imprinted itself onto my soul. And as long as I live, it shall stay with me.

You loved me more than I loved you that’s what you said. So reasons for my love you asked, but no words came out of my mouth. We won’t be friends that’s all I knew, if we ever fell apart. Six years later, I love you more than you love me that’s what you said. And not to bother you you asked. So my prediction had come true. And I cannot be your friend.

Heart beats faster as if about to explode out of my chest. Lungs barely keep up, jumps from deep sigh to another. All of these in cycles repeat. Long silent drags of smoke made necessary. Or my frail body fails. Made alive is life. Higher than ever I soar.

Why do we hurt our own kind? Why do we need them to lose and fall to the ground? Why does it seem unnatural to reach out, extend a hand? Don’t we all deserve the same things? I have clean water and food to fill my stomach, and a home to keep me warm at night. Why does not everyone have that? Everyone ought to feel how it is to be human. DAMN IT!

How sweet it is for life to stab us in the gut. One of his arms around our neck, while another twists and turns the knife buried completely in us. Staring blankly into space, fully aware of the pain and how things will never be as they were. Blood trickles down from the hole, but we carry on walking forward, our backs as tall as the Eiffel tower. A bit more desperate, hungrier, pushing with strength up to the last ounce.

A galaxy of ideas. In too many black corners of space, too many red dwarfs gone unnoticed. Only a bold few penetrate, see light of watchful eyes. Showers of heart with tales of beauty and death. Meant with awe, by time silently simmered. Scatters of satellites, by undeniable collisions tempered, disaster and experience in memory’s left pocket kept. Too heavy these are, proved by the muscles of the mind. Alas, nothing is to be lifted. Nothing but joining in inspiration fight.