Everything is so empty, disconnected. The emptiness, the anguish […] So empty, everything so empty…
What should I do? Stop thinking. Simply be there […]
The anguish hurts me because only a part of me feels it and the other doesn’t believe in it. How should I live?
Perhaps that’s not the problem at all. How should I think? I know so little.
And maybe it’s because I’m always so curious. Sometimes I think in such a wrong way because I think…
As if I were speaking to someone else at the same time. Inside closed eyes… to close them once more.”
(Wings of Desire by Wim Wenders)
Time stands still. Slowness and stillness inevitably bring back memory; they force us to remember, to think, to face the pains neglected for years. The sorrow for the premature loss of a brother, the need to understand and to remember him. The attachment to the maternal figure, the longing to return to childhood, to a dimension of lightness, warmth, and protection. The difficulty of being happy, out of fear that something might break again. And thus the constraint to emotional flatness, to coldness, to detachment, in order to avoid suffering. The fear of being alone, the fear of oneself. No longer recognizing who you are, feeling suspended, empty, drained of strength. Seeking refuge in sleep and in dreams, to still the mind. The desire for normality, for a simple life, to live someone else’s life, the attraction to other people’s homes, illuminated, warm. And finally, letting go, surrendering to that ocean of memories, emotions, pain, and beauty that merge and flow, infinite.
