wake up, we fall again.

"Nobody likes being alone that much. I don't go out of my way to make friends, that's all. It just leads to disappointment."

- Haruki Murakami.

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It fades to black once again.

Sitting in the middle of a dark room, with all the lights off, the sound of a camera click could be heard. The film began to roll, and the pitch black dissipated for a little while. It was room, with no furniture, except for a seat in the center of the room and the camera right beside the chair projecting the monochrome image towards the wall in front. No audio could be heard apart from the sound of the rolling film. Patiently watching the film, the sweat began to trickle awaiting the dramatic input of music. No sound came, it was only till the middle that it came to realisation that it was a silent film. There was no recollection of what had happened in the first half of the show. Persevering till the end of the film, concocted stories formed in the head to fill the gaps in the cinematic lapses from the first half to piece everything in place, every little detail seemed to be amplified and more terrifying. With each composition of the mindless plot in attempt to enable a full circle around the entire film, struggling to put in dialogue and reading the expressions of each amiably humble star playing a magnificent role in the film. Acting out each character so perfectly in conjunction to the narrated story in the head, the film became more than just a show as it almost transformed into a drama series of unnecessary heart break, merciless sabotage, resentful animosity, and fabricated apathy. Whirling around in the head, the voices of the disillusioned conversations held between the stellar performance captured in the film began to cause a migraine. The film had to be stopped, but it had been rolling for more than half its lifespan, it was left with a little till the credits. Sitting through the excruciating torture of trying to place focus on the storyline, and to forget about the white noise and the blank space which so deafeningly accompanied the silent film, it was in due time that the credits finally began to roll. After what felt like the longest time, the film had come to an end. Well, perhaps it was because it was assumed that half of the show had already disappeared from the memory and there was the slight possibility of fun in figuring out the rest of the show, while forgetting that the first half was forgotten about. Perhaps it was the self-deduced dialogues which kept the intrigued mind looking forward to the next scene, enduring the silent boredom just to complete the redundant self-debate. Perhaps it was beyond just a closure of the film, but the enjoyment of the pain while sitting through the second half of the film. Perhaps it was the thrill in questioning over and over in the mind - who was to say that the moment of reviving from a blank out marked the middle point of the film? Perhaps it was time to feed the family pet, patiently waiting outside of the room, where hunger implodes to the extent of almost forgetting the existence of a food bowl. The credits had finished rolling a long time ago, and it was yet another moment of spacing out from self-induced blames and torments about inability. Gripping the handles of the seat to get up while trying to shake off the pins and needles, a sharp pain was felt and a bruise was observed at the bend of the knee. The origin of the bruise was beyond reminiscence as much as the entire film was now a blur due to the persistence in trying to figure out when the ink splotch of black and blue made its grand entrance. Repressing the disappointment in neglecting a simple task such as the scheduled meal of a domestic animal, and suppressing the self-impediment from the oversight of forgetting. While it was almost impossible to swallow the distasteful aspect of disregarded amnesia, that thought on it's own was so consuming that the line between retrospection and distraction started to fade into a faint shade of gray. It was far from the fact that the thought on it's own could not be entertained, and yet at the same time could not be pushed away into oblivion. The questions surrounding that thought revolved around the same focal point. Why is it so hard to remember what the focal point was and what was supposed to be recalled earlier? Only to have these questions forgotten, and asked again, and forgotten, and asked again - it was as if this turmoil was self-induced, in the attempt to dig up all the hypothetical pleasantries from before to ruminate and replay in a separate emotion each time until perfection. There was never going to be perfection, for perfect is never enough. Brought up to conquer perfection in ways where a fast reaction had to be executed in order to survive on the balancing beam, it seemed as though now the mere task of getting up from a chair appeared harder than balancing on a rope despite grasping the concept of equilibrium and trying to land on both feet. Why was it so hard to just forget about the entire forgetting event? Before the knees buckled from pain and tumbling back onto the ground, landing on the exact same spot, the sudden consciousness of how the room was now lit up due to the end of the film and overstaying the welcome of the credits - that glaring awareness began another cycle of ruminating self-accusations, triumphant self-defeats, and a wild ride on the carousel of horses tripped over their horse shoes.

It fades to black once again.

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"Blessed is he who expects nothing, for he shall never be disappointed."

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M.

we fall for that.

can't wait to all again.

but i'm weak, and what's wrong with that.