There is nothing in it, no wisdom, no treasure, even crumbs to extol.
It is directionless, emptiness, there is nothing to gain.
Nobody cares how well you scroll.
It is despair, an absence and death.
Nobody cares how well you scroll.
There is only vanishing, like you were never here.
The problem with stupid is its relentlessness. It just goes on and on. And on.
Smart is its own worst enemy, thinking itself to exhaustion, especially how to explain to stupid, which never works.
Stupid hates smart for being smart. It will not stop for anything, even survival, to be heard. There’s hope you say? Based on what? Stupid has always won.
Why are Andrei Tarkovsky’s films even a thing? They’re a meandering mess with endlessly long shot after long shot, slow tracks in and slow tracks sideways, sophomoric monologues about coping with existence dribbling on. Pretentious artsy crap. But I’m obsessed.
I was over tired when I went to see the recently restored version of Nostalgia. As much as I was enraptured by the opening shot, I was already falling asleep. It seemed a volatile thing because that’s where Tarkovsky lives, on that line between consciousness.
On the verge of madness? Was that it? Or clarity? A distant voice called out. A following tracking shot across a drained pond. I was almost scared. Or maybe I was and couldn’t admit that. I was understanding something, or forgetting what I thought I knew.
I woke the moment you leaned. You listened. That’s what you said. You knew I was lost and found something in that. You had been where I had. Mine was yours. And then it was gone.
You didn’t understand that my state of rest is the argumentative. That brings me peace, not being right or wrong, but that you only have to argue a little bit harder to be heard.
Social Widgets powered by AB-WebLog.com.