:: Zatoichi ::
lately it has become difficult to generate sympathy towards what gets projected on the screen, i'm saddened by the recognition of my lack of capacity for appreciation of the beauty (on an almost uniquely subjective--- personal/emotive level) of a story made out simply to be told. the last few trips to the cinema begot a certain deception; while knowing of the grandness of the emotive potential of what was seen, no real connection between the silent voids outside and my screaming hollow were made. so many things have taken me by surprise that the numbness spread in an almost protective manner, i became less than a spectator, less than a viewer, less than a watcher.
but when all turned not so strangely worse, i found my self incapable to stay out of the amazing dynamics of contrast. my stubborn decision to focus on that particular screen on that particular day washed away much of the built up sorrow.
i sat there expecting an almost silent film with traces of the japanese theatrical tradition that supposes an enormous distance between my un-transcendental view of life and the mystical grace of the incomprehensible. and such a distance was found, but not only between myself and what was being portrayed.
a blind man walks in silent calm, gripping tightly what is later known to be the key to his wandering. all other, colorful characters, walk through life in a melodical pitter-patter creating illusions of complete oblivion of what has been wrongly made. but all are blind to the eternal struggle between the innermost pain and the projected cheerfulness of a perfectly white mask.
the day to day happenings create an atmosphere of comforting content toward all, but the way all happens reveals a certainly distressing truth, above and bellow all that can be seen lay the terrible scars of past events. what has been cannot cease to be, but compensation is to be acquired. only in silence, in invisible existence, can what has been lost begin to be gained; what cannot be seen even with eyes wide open must stay apart from this rhythmic succession of instants.
it is within this contrast that i found the way to relieve myself of i all. two stories in one second. a sentence not told nor shown. the unavoidable ignorance of what lay behind closed eyes and disguised natures. and a true grin that proceeds of my defeat.
i closed my eyes for a moment and found no distinction between the battle and the joyous dancing. i would have hoped that a clear evidence of change in those few seconds that passed by came forth and granted me the glory of intuitive recongition of a whole. but i am not at all like that; i depend entirely on the sameness of the inner fire of my eyes and those minuscule particles spread within the visible.
maybe my cane is no more than that. i cannot fight against anything as long as my eyes are still fixed on a spot, i cannot release myself of the constant surveilling and the need for visibility while i depend on this piercing light.
and while all may dance in forgetful celebration, a faint suspicion of the all powerful pain still clouds my sight. and so it seems that it
is precisely what i cannot see that frees me from what i so painfully keep hidden from all.
coming in through my ears::Citizen erased//Muse