My senses have been heightened considerably whilst watching this film. It ended long ago, yet it still leaves its mark on my soul. In some scenes I found myself closing my eyes and listening to the dialog and soundtrack, letting it become the only thing I heard and felt.
I found my eyes becoming blurred with tears at the mere beauty of the film. And I thought of others that could be watching it. Other people in the world that sit with their wide eyes trained on the screen.
Were they bathed in light or darkness as I was? Did hot tears stream down their cheeks as the end credits ran and the poem was spoken? Did their rushed fingers brush the spines of their books until they found a poetry book, as I did? Did their eyes follow each word as it was spoken lovingly by the dark haired actor?
Did they feel the same overwhelming wave of emotions as I did? Did their eyes shine with tears as mine did? Were they not free of an overwhelming sense of being alive? Did they long to write letters and poems and tales of love and life in all it’s ecstasy and sorrow?
Did everything they did afterwards become new and picturesque, or was I alone in this strange experience of heightened emotion and the true sense of being alive?
This film makes me want to live. To experience all I can. To dance through fields of flowers and to lie in the grass and watch the clouds. To feel woe in all it’s unending power and suffering. To feel joy: a joy that seems to have no end and brings such a feeling of freedom that makes me want to scream across the rooftops that I AM ALIVE!
It makes me want to hear the scratch of pen across paper, stories manifesting from my fingertips as if by magic. It makes me want to catch butterflies in summer, waltz through the fallen leaves of autumn, dash through the rain in winter, and make daisy chains in spring. It makes me want to watch films and listen to music that makes me cry.
I want to read poetry all night, then watch the sunrise before falling into a blissful slumber. I want to love and be loved. I want to exist and not exist. It makes me want to feel every emotion possible, a blind rush of sensations that crash down upon me, only to wash away and take with them any sense of direction.
I want to walk through a forest and become hopelessly lost, sleeping under the canopy of leaves when night finds me. I want to live in my imagination forever, where I shall be lost no more. I want to have flaws and imperfections, accepting them as I never could before.
I want to learn how to dance. I want to stare out foggy windows, dreaming of another place. I want to plant wild flowers in my backyard that shall bring the sweetest of scents. I want to sing! Sing to the streets, the city, the world! The passers by on the street shall not be strangers to my voice! I want to feel true sadness and learn from it.
I want to always feel the way that this film made me feel. I want these feelings to never end, these sensations to remain where they are. I want to love the world for what it is. I want to cry as if everything is crashing down around me and I want to laugh until my stomach aches.
I want to be young forever, youth being in my eyes and soul even when my skin wrinkles and my hair grows gray. I want to let my thoughts consume me and never again hate them as I have lately. I want to start a butterfly farm during the summer and dedicate my bedroom to it.
I want to find a tree and climb up it, sleeping amongst it’s branches before reading and writing poetry in it’s comforting shade. I want to go for walks in every weather whilst listening to soothing melodies of pianos and violins.
I want to feel the full blow of all my losses and let them eat away at me. I want to let music take me far away with it’s swirling melodies and striking songs. I want to never sleep again and I want to dream forever.
I want to paint with my eyes closed and I want to take my art to the street. I want to cease to exist and I want to face death when it next enters my life. I want to dip my toes in the sand and close my eyes, feeling the ocean air caressing my face and lifting my hair into a wave-like dance.
I want to know what it is to be loved and to be touched by another human being once again. I want to become a mystery, an enigma to those around me. I want to feel disappointment, let it cut at me until I can expel it and move on. I want to stumble through the darkness and walk in the light.
I want to wake up early every day to watch the sunset. I want to touch the skin of another without fear of rejection. I want to be intoxicated by the world and nature and the mere fact that I am alive. I want to ponder death and how soon it shall come, where and when it waits for me on the horizon.
I want to write until my hand aches and I cannot hold the pen up anymore. I want to meet other people with high intellect that will read books with me. I want to be consumed by darkness and silence until I can bare it no longer and scream to the sky. I want to wear flowers in my hair and hand them out to strangers on the street. I want to drive with the window open and wear my hair down.
Above all, I want to live. Live through the sorrow and ecstasy and suffering. Living is not what I used to think it was. I believed that it was pure happiness and freedom. And I believed that I was missing out on it. But living never was so. It was the moments of wretchedness and bliss. The nights spent crying for those lost and the days spent prancing through a dream free from worry. I was living all along.
This world, to me, still is not real. I’ve never believed that it is so. One day, I shall die and pass over to the true world. This is a test of what we can handle and what we cannot. We all shall fade away one day, our existence a memory left behind, a whisper in our loved one’s ears. I
t soon shall be as if we never existed. As if we were never born, kicking and screaming: rejecting the world we’d just been put in. We shall be buried in the ground and many shall walk over us without a second glance at our grave stones. Or shall we be cremated? Ashes in an old brown urn to be scattered at sea or kept on top of the fireplace beside an old picture of us.
When we pass, it shall be like waking from a dream. Was it real, or do I confuse reality with my vivid imaginings again? Do I dream again of strange faces made familiar with kind words? Do I dream of aching and grief so real to me that their ghosts remained the next morning, sunlight streaming through the window?
Shall the memory of our lives even remain, or shall we wake in a strange place without the lingering feel of lips on our skin, goose bumps rising at the very thought of it? Shall we all die a human and return a butterfly or a bird, flying over those we used to know without a thought of recognition passing through our minds?
We cannot know, so we live our lives without knowing what waits at the end. A prize, no doubt, for all that we have been through. Or nothing at all, this being our only life to live? All we can be sure of is that we are alive. We are alive.
“A thing of beauty is a joy forever: it’s loveliness increases; it will never pass into nothingness.” - John Keats