If you sink your brain into gasoline you might find it more colourful after a good rain.
One day you’ll let go of the pain.
You’ll let go of the past.
One day the wrong people will be out of your life. And someone great will come your way.
One day dreams will come true.
One day you won’t cry that much when you think about that memory.
One day you’ll look at yourself in the mirror and you’ll smile.
One day you’ll feel proud.
One day the world will appear full of possibilities and new. Because you are new.
Spoilers ahead.
“The media loves to divide women into virgins or vamps, angels or whores. Let’s not encourage them.”(Stella Gibson)
Descending into the universe created by Allan Cubbit, you get the feeling that the world you knew, the one in which you found beauty and comfort, the one in which your children played safely, does not exist.
A man is killing young, professional women in Belfast, Northern Ireland, over the course of a few months and Detective Superintendent Stella Gibson is called in from London to assist with the investigation. Her insight and intelligence help uncover clues about who the killer might be. From the moment she starts to gather clues about his identity, this case becomes more and more personal and a confrontation of two separate forces: the destructive force(represented by the killer) and the protective force(played by DSI Gibson). The whodunit becomes an intricate psychological game in which the lives and thoughts of the two protagonists are displayed. In the background, the world of law enforcement is revealed as deeply flawed and shallow. It is a world of foul play, sexism and weakness. Stella and Paul are different, yet similar. She feels she can understand him because she relates to that damaged part in herself that is hidden under the cold exterior. He likes toying with her because he found a worthy adversary and it excites him. They are both intelligent, brave and motivated.
The musical score: simple, yet powerful, reinforces the theme of this psychological drama: the descent into the abyss. There’s a sound of a beating heart that lets the viewer become engrossed in this world from the first moment they click play. Over the course of 3 seasons, every character in this BBC miniseries is forced to come face to face with their demons: the detective who fights to reestablish some sort of justice into the world, the wife who loses her husband and the lie of the quiet family life, the empathetic daughter of a serial killer who is distressed by her father’s dark side, the men from the Police Service of Northern Ireland (PSNI).
“No one knows what’s going on in someone else’s mind. Life would be intolerable if we did.” says Paul in the first episode. And this series doesn’t spare you the truth of this statement. It lets you see it, hear it, feel it until the end. The horror of the human mind.
With a score of 8.2 on imdb, The Fall is a masterpiece of cinematography and writing. Starring Gillian Anderson in the role of DSI Stella Gibson, Jamie Dornan as criminal Paul Spector and the wonderful cast of Northern Ireland who helped bring this story to life on the screen.
The credit for the photos goes to BBC.
will make you see the world with new eyes.
What about you?
Wasn’t the best in the world, looking back on it. A lot of uncertainty, fights and confusion. If I was offered the chance to relive it as it was, I don’t think I’d take it. But sometimes I miss it. I miss moments of it. I miss the summer nights when, unknowingly to my mom, I’d sneak out of the house and cover the grass with a blanket and would gaze at the starry sky and get lost in the immensity of the space. I never felt more at peace with myself and the world than in those moments. The noises of the day settled down, and I would feel a strange connection with the universe.
I miss climbing trees, and asking for one more ice cream, and playing games on the lane. I miss the pure joy of waking up and realizing how lucky I was to live another day of summer in which I could do whatever I please. I miss my enthusiam, and courage and recklessness. I miss a certain moment of freedom, that would stick forever in my mind, when the wind was blowing in my made-up superhero cape, and I jumped so high I felt like flying. I miss the times when books were my whole world and characters my companions and I’d get lost in the plot. I read thousands of pages as if my life depended on them, and I walked side by side with the characters, and I cried for them, and I looked down in the abyss from a cliff with them. I don’t think literature would ever have that effect on me again. And I’d want to scream and rebel and implore to get that feeling back.
Nostalgia must be one of the most powerful emotions a human can experience. Most of the days I don’t even think about those moments in my past. But from time to time, influenced by an external stimulus, some unknown feeling draws me back into the past and I am left with the crushing sensation that I lost something magical and irreversible.
https://unsplash.com/photos/FJqzYi1S6Mg
Who’s the biggest doofus that ever lived?
None other than yours truly. “Why?” you might ask. Well, I just subscribed to my own blog. :)) I was trying to log in into my WordPress account and I clicked on “follow”. Imagine getting an email saying “you just subscribed to your own blog”. Someone revive Eugène Ionesco. I don’t know how he would have felt if he lived to see this absurd world we live in. Shocked? Surprised? Frolicsome?
Anyway, I wanted to write about other things today. I was writing a review for The Fall, Allan Cubbits’ series when, all of a sudden, the realization hit me. The realization of what an immense sh*thole the world has become. The murders, the police brutality, the travesties of justice. The assault on shops, and the mayhem in the streets. God, the world is on fire around me. And I’m watching the world die, and change and rise all over again from the outside, from the verge.
I’ve been feeling a distinct, acute feeling of distress these days. I read so many horrible news, I briefly sorted through other tragedies that happened while I grew up, and a thought occurred to me. I never knew how perverted, sick the world can be until I had access to the Internet. Sure, echoes of the madness of the world came through radio waves and TV as well, but the Internet is an alien force of different power and sophistication that showed me a new facet of ugliness.
Seeing people show their true colors on social media in these difficult times, I was confronted once again with the way in which apparently, the keyword being apparently, educated and well-balanced members of our society display their racist views, lack of common sense, ignorance, hate so freely. It’s late and I should be sleeping. There are not enough words in the dictionary to tell the story of what we have become.
I tried to understand what I was feeling. It took me a while to realize that behind the anger and the combative spirit in me, there is deep disappointment and sadness when I look at the world.
Every summer has a story. It’s my favourite season, even though once in school I said that autumn is, just to look cool and please my teacher. It’s the time of adventures, comfortable clothes and ice cream. And every summer I lived had a distinct, memorable story to tell.
This summer will definitely be that summer when I binge-watched The X-files and Person of Interest and The Fall. The madness has already begun.
I felt like writing today. I think it’s safe to say I feel sort of “restored” after a period of existential boredom and end of semester anxiety. Quarantine gets the worst out of you. There are so many thoughts in my head, and no one around to discuss them with. It’s not like I ever had anyone to discuss deep thoughts with. But how I wish I had! I used to bury my thoughts in my diaries or spontaneously splash them on the last pages of my school notebooks. That used to keep me sane and composed in an insane environment. And there was a time when I had to let go of writing, because I felt I didn’t have the words anymore. And that was painful, because I always felt words were my thing.
Sometimes, I think I’m going mad. All these things that only exist in my head. It is days like these that I realize how devoid of true talk my life is. And it’s days like these that hurt me the most.
But I guess it’s alright. At least I can write again. And maybe someone will read my words and for a moment I will feel less… alone.
The time that you expected is coming.
So you have a dream. Everybody has a dream. It might be that you’ve been waiting for years to make it happen, or it might be a recent desire, but every dream resonates with something in ourselves, every possibility of fulfilling it brings us closer to a day when we will be complete.
Fulfilling a dream is harder than life, and life is not a walk in the park either. Managing usual life, struggling to pay fees, raising kids, dealing with people is a breeze, compared to the things you might have to do in order to make it happen. Because every great deed has a price.
Some want to be dancers, and they work hours and hours in the studio, injuring their feet and muscles knowing that when they’ll be on the stage everything will be worth it. The coreographer will shout at them, push them and dismiss them. Some want to help children in orphanages get a good life. For this they would need money, and time and emotion, and strenght.
Or they want to be writers. They want their words to bring something new in the world.
But how do you know you’re ready for this dream? Sure, dreaming is easy, is accesible. How about the pain, the insecurities the life threatening situations? You might need to starve to raise money for your dream, you might get in life threatening situations for your dream, you’re opening your heart to the world because you care about this dream and people know it and they’ll trample over your heart.
Are you redy for these yet? And if you’re not, what are you without this dream? And if you have to jump, what if you pull back? And if you don’t at least try, will you be able to forgive yourself?
The moment you grow up is the moment you realise everything around you is changed.
When I was ten, my summer would consist of skipping my breakfast to go and play with my friends on the lane. We would pick our favourite game and played it until we got tired of it. Sometimes we would turn over the rules of the game and make a new one. And we would have so so much fun. Those were the times when I’d stay out until 8, 9 o’clock right on time to see my dad returning from work. I’d spend hours playing in the sun without wearing a hat or sunscreen, and I’d be fine. Some nights, when I wasn’t too tired, I’s stay up to watch Yu Yu Hakusho or any other anime and dream about the future.
When I grew older, and I got a taste for reading novels, my summer would consist of endless roads to the library from where I would grab the greatest stash of books, go home and stay in my old purple couch, that I used to paint with my pencils, and read them until my eyes hurt.
Years later, I used to binge CSI Miami and The Mentalist and NCIS eating icecream, and corn and candies.
Now, my summer enthusiasm is replaced by the need to go to my job and write my thesis. I didn’t eat so much icecream, and I can’t play with my friends because we have other games now, and I don’t have the time to enjoy a novel. Blog posts have become my daily dose of literature. Lately, it’s been so rainy and cloudy, the way I don’t remember any other summer has been.
I’m not complaing, altough it’s hard. But everything is so strange, and changed. Or maybe I am changed. Maybe this is a sign I’ve grown up. For good.
Do you know those days when you simply can’t move a finger to the things that you’re supposed to do? When you have tons of schoolwork to do, but the inspiration to write is gone(you feel like forever)? Well, today is one of those days, and in between presentations, characters’ analyses and random songs, I want to tell a funny anecdote of my school life. Today we had to present our essays in front of our lit professor and in between questions, funny remarks made their way. For example, did you know that when you write your essay entirely by yourself, you can call it your ”baby”? When you copy it off the Internet it’s your adopted baby, and if your friend wrote your essay you’re the foster parent.
Q: Why do you think this author wrote this novella for?
A: Because he didn’t have dishes to do at home.
Q:Why don’t you like this character?
A: Because he’s a creepster.
Oh, yes, the fun of discussing literature. Did I say how much I love it?
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