These are The Hours.
Manifestation of all my fears. My projection of myself, who I become in a few years. If I'd have the power to ignore the unnecessary, and to identify which side IS unnecessary and if I'm on the right side. If my face has lines of bitterness from the highly-revered melancholy - yearned desired because it magnifies emotion, because that's what makes me a writer, magnifying of emotion.
How the depth of my relationships are explored. The things I'd do for a friend. What I'd sacrifice, if I'd hold his weak, dying hand, if I'd visit regularly.
If I'd continue to speak in my superior speech. Because I'm tired of saying clean. When I can say scrub wipe wash sweep clear brush cleanse scrape dust purify. PURGE. Just so you understand that I am not that easy to understand, and that unfortunately, you will remain just outside that door, and that there is, in fact, a stopper, so no.
The people I consider my friends, and how much of my family is neglected. Or have I mixed them up? I meant my family, and the neglect of my friends.
When a movie reads like a book, and the dialogue echoes many, many times after each line is said. I remember the ones that don't make sense, that are out of context - they are the most profound, the most accurate in description.
You kissed me that day on the beach, do you remember?
What did you want then?
What about Sally?
I'm saying that even crazy people like to be asked.
I don't think you can call yourself a woman until you're a mother.
Why do I see in clear layers? There are maybe a million layers and why do I see all of them individually. Then why don't I remember, when I mouth the words as they are said, as though I wrote them all myself.
The incoherence is disorienting, is it?
In its mildest form.
That madness is in fact, not amusing.
That it is not glamorous.
And that maybe your exclusive club has become Too Exclusive.
***
THIS is what happens when I take notes while I watch a film.
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