It was about the little things, that sort of feeling. The flow of thoughts came with ease, a comfortable sort of sedative on a heated autumn day. I had the utmost admiration for the beautiful life, the aesthetic aspect of the sunlight shadow dancing on the pavement wall. I walked with the philosophic, thoughts of the quiet unspoken intricacies about life. Thoughts came to mind at random, remembering films from the hipster days, Woodstock to the yuppie afternoons of the eighties. A past time for a conscious mind raised on cold war ideals, a rebel without a cause rebelliousness of the age. I viewed life as a motion picture cinema like the original James Bond, Risky Business, Who Framed Roger Rabbit, and Ralph Bashki Cool World, all the way to the pre-adolescence film aficionado then contemporary box office —“you added too many films to that list, sweetheart.”
The melancholy of a writer came like larceny, one random thought after another that sort of Utopian creativity of a novelist obsessed with the idyll. To hunger for life is an intense affair, but to be intoxicated with life is the most adulterous affair one can have. I thought ought else, liken to a child mind aware of his or her own existence. I thought about a prison of frustration, restricted by society and life it self. One such film came to mind. This girl read incessantly. Her mother have taken notice how “she has thoughts beyond her years.” It was awareness that was kept hidden, shrouded by a false pretense of idiocy. The quiet introspective mannerisms caused a mother’s grief. It was on a hot summer’s day, one early mid-evening, her mother had bought a television. The petite framed woman turned on a much older rendition of a local area network channel, and left to spend an evening out with her retired post-cold war husband.
The mere thought of the film during the heat of a bright autumn day felt as blissful agony on a dangerous edge of peristalsis, like the guilty pleasure of watching something for the very first time. ‘Once Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest’ with Jack Nicholson came to mind. Life could not have been more bitter-sweet than at that exact moment time stopped in this idyll world. Life transformed as profound art. Within this prison, rebel allies banded together to fight against oppression. So, do we live in the prison of our minds with a false sense of freedom. Through the eyes of a child, I saw the dualistic view of reality. Everything seemed brighter. The sun had shown surreal. In my world, everything were as it is. In the world, everything is the way it exists. That is the nature of our existence. This unbearable lightness of being, a passion for life came unexpectedly. I saw this again, untouched with time.