I'm watching the movie Passengers, for the second time. I'm drawn to these scant few movies of isolation and desperation that offer brief glimpses of my own journey.
There is a connection, a mirror, if you will, whereby I don't feel quite so alone and wrapped up in my own stockings. To see one's life...a semblance of one anyway, subtle connections, fingertips touch then quickly turn away.
I'm but an awesomely small percentage of this waking, walking, incessant chattering, drama filled world of families, relationships, friendships deep and shallow. These, all of these occupy around 90-95% of the movies, the books, and the people around me.
I am miniscule, an atom spinning on its own access watching those around me connect, mate and intermingle.
I am but an obscure, isolated, wounded fraction that rarely finds another thus so. My interactions are brief, short-lived and mostly tragic or hopeless or silly girl wishes...daydreams carried out an open window, yet another thing that will never be. Dreams and wishes are for unicorns and good little girls whose fathers don't rape them and sell them. Connections are for people whose mothers can love them, not repeatedly look the other way, turn around and walk out the door as fathers molest them, beat them bloody, bruise and starve.
My world is double closed and mine alone.
You watch Passengers you get a wee bit of a view into my waking dream
No comments:
Post a Comment