I used to be able to appreciate movies in a literary lens, naturally, noticing the finitely pleasurable details that hold a seeming insignificance to the entirety of the film. I’d be fond of the particular overlay of tint that sheds light on the general personality of the film; that thin and thick trunks represented the director’s focus on naturalism.
But days ago, this literary process worsened from a mere retardation to a complete cessation. I noticed only the superficialities yet innately knew that there was something more purposeful to be discovered, to be analysed and fathomed with a satisfying joy. I only fear. Perhaps this is what a life without lucidity is: bereft of a fuller and more intimate possession of our bodily experience.
Alas. My muscles are worn, my mind rusted, my eyes terribly dry like dead leaves. I want to wake up at the break of dawn — especially on Saturdays — to acknowledge time with an impact, to realise that I have clasped time in my very hands, and to permit its flow would be at my own will.
Ah! experiences will only get richer and we’d anon learn how to master our minds that are in seeming gridlock.