last night, in the midst of tickling you with my whiskers before bed, I realized my cleverness of words would not solve the problem having to, one day, take you down by the river and show you my bones.

That kiss we shared made me ecstatic to know in the very far future, when I am nearly 100 years old and you still look 26 I would be arriving at my point of my return, and you will be forced to see me for what I have truly been all along, a ghost looking to lead itself to the doorstep of heaven, using nothing but the strength of your love to live so long.

To know that a man could dream without having to endure despair but love, I would not have been so aware of my supernatural abilities if it was not for how you caressed me with your heart.

No matter if the lights were on or off, you Somehow show me the eternity of where your love for me is formed and reborn every day I should always feel the ways of indebtedness, because there is no way to pay back the infinities of love you store in Your heart.

forever and ever

love

-X

I am living off the dime of a magical wand that rushes my brain with a hive of bees—turning me airheaded from the buzzes of white air, smacking my inner matrix with the finest taste Duke Street has to offer. A second for honesty? This Dunhill of mine, possibly, may be my only true friend.

We have no lies shared between us, no temperaments, no secrets, no questions, and no feelings. When I take a stroke from my cork-ended wand, all of Westminster hears me calling out to them, and they never feel a need to send a word back. That’s what I call a good friend—just two pals holding a silent stale pose, sharing a panoramic view of everything.

I do believe this habit of mine is upstanding; it is the most selfish thing anyone can do on this hypocritical moral land, as I fit into no societal party except for the one I create every time, I set fire to breathe in life and breathe out life. I even declined Rembrandt’s invitation to get to know Bathsheba and her side of the story. Just so I could get back to my stale pose, letting my lips sail so my teeth could shine with rejoice, because I have a friend who greedily spends hours of the day, wrapping his stench around me like a blanket on a winter night. Sometimes, I don't know where this wand of mind is taking me. Sometimes I don't even know why, but I guess I will keep on.

Today, I broke my rule about getting out of bed before eight A.M., and since then, I have felt a wave of seasickness wash over me. The brewing rain resting on the charcoal island above does not boost my confidence that a wave might be coming my way.

My eyes want to deceive me, claiming that the blurred lines around me will hold and that all is fine. Now, I am loosely searching for Schumann's rope so I can pull all the planets closer for a waltz. Secretly, I still feel remorseful about killing an ant on my way to the bathroom, but I felt guilty enough to leave it a Band-Aid before continuing my search for words to fill the blank lines of my internal dictionary.

I needed to write this to contradict life, because if you’re reading this, I am still alive; the ant is not. Schumann never needed to do what I did today to prove he is alive. He brought grace closer to everyone's hearts in good faith, while I dwell in my guilt. Schumann plays, and I stay in place, dancing to the tides rushing from afar. 

I tried to find the moon, but the clouds kept it hidden. I tried to find it, but I couldn't. I tried to find something smaller than myself, but I couldn't reach it. I tried to hate, but I ended up loving. I tried to find time, but I ran out of it. I tried to be mean, but I ended up being kind. I tried to look backward, but I only moved forward. I tried to sit down only to stand up again, searching for nothing. I tried not to write this, but I already did.

The compelling nature of literature has guided me through a set of grand French doors into a room full of mirrors, which I have never left and never intend to. Because in this room, I was introduced to the many reflections of histories, sociologies, and psychologies that will take me a lifetime to explore—minds that have been carried and entrusted to the pages of leaves, pressed with words, preserving the essence of each voice that has been the true reasoning behind our enriched culture.

The many purities within literature, which I hold dear, have been judged by vocal proponents who understood the great joy of words creating action, drama, and tragedy. Though these proponents may forever be engraved, better silent, it is in silence that my world and the world between my hands allow me to expand my understanding of life through as many perspectives as I wish. In doing so, I gain extra life while remaining in the one I am bound to, when no more blood is on the leaves, and the end of a book has come. I still hold onto the rich context instilled in me by an author who extended their life so I could continue to see the past, present, and future within myself through an intimate journey of meditation.

Most people will go through life missing out on the valuable knowledge of our natural human ability to tell stories—from truths and lies to acting as victims to stumbling upon human faults to being stuck in a history where parliaments, presidents, and promises replaced kings. I will remain trapped in eternity. Literature is a product shaped from commentary on life's process, making itself the closest way to experience or grasp some sense of life by living through it. It chips away at the marble of our ancient past and newly discovered self dimensions, carving them into new visions, just as Michelangelo did with David.

Big world, are we still friends?

You act from a distance, although I have already forgiven you for the scarred tissue you caused.

Leaving me to mend what you broke,

Friends would not wish bad on one another,

But you insist on leaving me in the rearview mirror next to the grim reaper,

foreshadowing all my mortal flaws,

which will be unraveled the day I become dust in the hourglass with the rest of the souls lost between heaven and hell.

I did not need your help to showcase this image.

The day I was born,

I understood the meaning of my wrinkles forming behind crescents of night and the mirages of day.

I know what I am.

Big world, why use your power to stop my truths from being discovered?

Antiquities of my bloodline remain in the wind,

still in the hands of my great-great-grandfather’s enslaver.

Big world,

may you show me a little grace?

Living in the city is killing me, but it has also brought me closer to an ugly reality I have come to embrace.

My stomach is eating my back, and I enjoy the loud rumbles while I seep into the words of infinite wonder.

I wonder how many more seconds of my life the city will steal from me, waiting in traffic, breathing in the toxins and fumes of capitalism that help my body flourish.

How could I leave the city?

I’m hooked on poisonous drugs and sugars, maintaining all the antibodies being tamed here.

Savory facades are built and torn down every day in the city; this is the place where the fallen angels wine and dine.

I run into them often, letting them take minutes from me; those devils replenish efforts with a smile and a handshake, on their way they go.

Black suits, black ties, and black vegan-leather suitcases stain my existence; there is no meaning here in the city.

But it is still beloved, I must turn the other way to search for the old town road.

There is hope of meeting God, or perhaps even the Devil.

As long as I meet someone, that’s all I care about.

I sent the amber train of whiskey chugging, I sent my farewells to a place that knew me better than I knew myself.

The bottom of the barrel teaches a universal lesson. A drunk dog reveals a finger-licking faith, which is instilled into him by the genie swimming in the great seas of passion.

Lusting for self, lusting for the shadow lying on his back, strip-teasing itself at the shore of muddy waters.

Caressing himself in the drapes of his own warmth until he is reborn and dragged back to light from the abyss of that great genie he found.

The “unexplained” is where I go through my archive of secrets.

I am currently saving until I am dissolved into the crevice of nature.

God will appear again when I am distracted by the pain of life.

All art lies in man, but is by far apparent; during my time alive, I thought more about before being born, I was already dead, and during my time alive, I am more of an idea.

I saw in the desert, your open sky. Smiling like a crowned princess, playing cards with angels.

We have ran through mountains, like the world knew our name.

The clergy has agreed to anoint our love outside time.

And now a moon has passed, fruits have reached maturity, water bodies have immersed into cooking pavements, and fall has become white powdery balls of lint.

In the passages of weeks, I have watched the walls in our nest-sized apartment turn pale from jealousy of our mirrors.

Gracefully poised to capture, luminescent beauty.

Your words have been carried by doves and sold to the finest lyrical salesmen.

Not only I, but the world will sing your soliloquy.

God reveals His heavenly presence on Earth in countless ways. For two hours and thirty minutes, He takes on the role of Wladyslaw Szpilman, a pianist portrayed by Adrien Brody, guiding viewers through the stark reality of despair. We witness a man sinking into the nocturnal linens of hell but never truly drowning, allowing faith to prevail in the end. Polanski explores the complexities of life amid humanity’s greatest sins, going beyond mere survival and resilience. He invites the audience into deep meditations on man’s destiny and the harsh realities faced.

As time passes, we are reminded of the seventeen million valiant souls who triumphed over death. By stripping away the vanity of a man earnestly pursuing his dreams, the story emphasizes living for something far richer than fear. The reward? Grace and salvation for all who confront the dissonances of history. This film has the power to shape the insights of millions who find themselves caught between humanity’s depraved judgments and affections. Ultimately, it will be the survivors who carry the light of all who have passed, embodying the true goodness of human nature.

Original Letterboxd post: The Pianist (2002) on Letterboxd

We drove to the belly of the southern spring, just outside of our small city. I had been outside all morning, tending to the dry elephant ear plants in our garden, envious of the crows visiting to enjoy a bath in the fountain, splashing the water about, mocking my struggles with the sun. To my left, through the clear back porch glass door, my eyes were treated to Stella, twirling around the inside, celebrating AC, egging me on with flirtatious teasing.

She was wearing the green lace dress I got her for our one-year anniversary, five years ago. She always wears her beauty so triumphantly. I admire how sacred it has become to her, as she only ever pulls it out of the closet on days when we are both home. Drowning in my pool of sweat was better than taking my eyes away from how astonishingly Stella’s dress still holds onto her body as the stars hold onto the night sky. Very pleasing and delicate, although I am not close enough to see the details; only the form her body had was all I had available to me, but it was all I needed at the current time to beat the summer heat.

Stepping back into the shaded area of the back porch, my heart was grateful to know the macrocosm above was here with me below in the form of my lover. I took my shirt off in hopes of taking a shower and accompanying Stella, with the sounds of Billie Holiday singing lullabies as my head lay across her silk chest. That idea of acting on my lust was cut short when I saw the red-and-white plaid ribbon tied to the picnic basket next to the front door.

“I thought it would be such a waste of a day if we didn’t take advantage of the sun and go to Barton Springs.”

I swiftly moved to the restroom in hopes of cleaning the dirt from behind my ears from all the sweat that had dried. Nothing sounded better than a cold shower and clearing out the pool of sweat in my belly button.

“There is no time for a shower, throw your linens on, and let’s go, please.”

I could barely hear her faint words over the rambling of kitchen drawers being opened and closed, so I tried playing it off by turning the soothing sounds of shower water on and removing my clothes. Stella popped her head through the crevice of the restroom door with a stern red face. Rushing to appease my lover’s command, I grabbed my white linen shirt, my navy blue bottoms, and caramel flip flops to create some sense of contrast; typically, my favorite thing to sit around in.

We were both in a jolly mood after last night, my mind has refused to let up on repainting her figure participating in the various positions I laid her in, what better way to end a night? Despite Stella's intensity in trying to push me through the door so we could leave and hope to find a good, sunny spot before it got too busy, as it usually does on Saturdays, I did not let myself forget to grab my tobacco and red wine off the dining room table.

I hated driving in the States with a passion, but something about riding in a convertible through the galleries of grass, trees, and cows made it somewhat forgiving. Upon our arrival, we noticed the waters were unusually high, probably due to the influx of rain that swept through during the night. Neither of us could swim, so we found a partly tree-shaded spot next to a family of dawdling ducks. With swimming being out of the question, Stella put herself into a chrysalis of sunscreen, her body began to radiate, and as I watched her caress her chest in such a loving way, making sure no spot was missed. There was no possibility of removing my eyes from her illuminated skin. I was beginning to like the idea of beating the heat with my eyes resting upon beauty and avoiding the tickling of fish kissing my feet.

I managed to splash adequate amounts of water on my linens when we entered the spring's body, fitting in with the rest who could actually swim. I basked underneath the sun like a wet dog for the duration of our stay, thinking about last night; wearily removing Stella’s skirt, looking into the Dorian sculpture window between her inner thighs, after an intimate date night. I took her downtown to enjoy Sushi Axiom, we giggled over multiple glasses of their red house wine, and discussed travel plans to escape back to the Tuscan cobblestone.

“I miss home so much, Jean.”

“When does the dual citizenship take effect again, love?”

“I -”

“Here are the shaggy dog rolls and edamame you guys ordered. Anything else you need from me?”

“No, not right now,” Stella responded.

The server did not forget to compliment Stella before flashing his back towards us again.

“I love your pixie cut, it is soooo cute!”

After the meal, I had planned for us to go to the pool hall down the street. The quarters were jingling the entire dinner; she could not help but laugh at her walking piggy bank of a man.

“You think you could jingle any louder, Santa?”

But with the rain, forgetting our deal to settle in a little early tonight, we were forced to head home before the flooding got worse. I leaned in for a kiss before I opened her door. I felt like Tobey Maguire did in Spider-Man; Stella’s scarlet lips made the scene more dramatic than it was. But she refused to let my scarf go, so we got on the leather seats, soaking wet with the seat warmers on full blast.

We stumbled through the door, tightly gripping each other, trying to extract nectar. Stella’s moans echoed the walls of our house as I explored the taste of pink cherries. Waking up today, I put my faith in a greater creator.

Susanna is admitted to a psychiatric hospital and immediately forced into labels and categories, but the film keeps returning to a deeper question: what does “normal” actually mean in a world that is itself unstable?

What struck me most about Girl, Interrupted is how often the people inside the hospital seem more honest about reality than the people outside it. Yes, the film shows real suffering and real clinical struggle, but it also shows perception with unusual clarity. The women are not detached from history. They are absorbing it in real time.

One of the most powerful moments is when they watch the coverage after Martin Luther King Jr. is shot. They sit with the grief and the shock while the outside world burns. In contrast, the so-called “crazy” world feels strangely contained, while the world beyond the hospital walls looks chaotic and unwell.

Another scene, with The Wizard of Oz, plays like a quiet mirror. The desire to escape is there, but so is the harder question: escape into what? The characters keep searching for freedom through small acts - rule-breaking, basement bowling, private rituals - because full freedom is structurally out of reach.

That is where the film has lasting force. It is not just asking who is sick. It is asking how much the environment, history, and power shape behavior before anyone is judged. If people are products of their environment, then who gets classified as “fit” and who gets classified as “broken” is never neutral.

Watching it now, the film feels current. In a country flooded with competing narratives, social pressure, and emotional overload, Girl, Interrupted still lands hard. It shows how a person can be altered by a world that refuses to explain itself.

Susanna’s arc finally lands on a difficult acceptance: the world is disordered, but she chooses to re-enter it anyway. The film treats that choice as both a matter of survival and of agency.

This review may contain spoilers.

Original review source: Xaviersingleton on Letterboxd