curtain falls.

 Now there's another reason how movies can break your heart, and this time, this time it's not the movie itself, not the characters, not the story, not the intricate turn of events, montage or end credits. This time it's about time. 

The time when that particular movie started to exist and roll through our monitor screen or theater canvas. Whether watched together or separate, the memories are there, during or post-watching. 

Watching reruns are equally devastating. Then the sequels come, and a character moves on. Somehow, I relive your passing and the separateness gets stronger as I watch alone. Only my memories are there.

I die along with these movies and regenerate like Sisyphus, waiting for the world to turn and the next film to watch and an old one to rewatch.  

quiet

I had an unspoken truce with myself that when I picked up the metaphorical pen again I would be going somewhere dark and familiar, that the correct choice would be not to pick up the pen. 

For the past week, memories have been blindsiding me, without any triggers at all. 

For the longest time, I took care not to play certain songs, watch certain movies, or pick up the camera. Even pick up a book.

I have succeeded until now, in a fit of temporary desperation, I pressed play on an Incubus video. It was a song in a playlist I have forgotten I had on YouTube. 

So here we are.