The Boy Who Stutters

To speak rhetorically is counterproductive for common understanding. To speak literally likewise does not always contribute much, or does it? But to speak has various forms. It can be printed or recorded; it can be silent or deafening. To speak is to express – to reveal what goes unsaid, to repeat what goes unheard, and to resolve what goes stated but ignored. Cinema speaks. It communicates more than it aims and sometimes aims more than what can only be communicated. The medium is limited but has a lot of power, and it thrives and fails with such nature. Cinema has a sharp tongue. It tastes the reality and assumes its knowledge as to live through it. It can also lick what is presented and passively swallow. It tastes and spits, rarely, and almost always misses the ground; but when it does, it will surely leave a spot. When facts can be presented poetically, do meanings become more defined and understanding more essential? In documentary films that are formally stunning and have practi

Two months since the flu and I’m still sick. There was blood. Mornings linger like a fly unbothered. It’s disgusting but a proof of life. Or death. I learned to count the days unlike before when time didn’t own me. I owned it. It was an illusion. It was real. Neglect and regret, I do. Like a wheel with no break, my demise goes unchallenged. The image looks lifeless, as everyone is. But I am not everyone. I am alive. Even if it doesn’t feel like it. Even if I don’t want to. I am alive. I never realized how long the nights are when the ceiling speaks the same monologue so I can sleep. Although nothing was written, everything was heard. It was an illusion. It was real. Visions are forced to wake up. There has to be a reason, I thought, even nothing matters anymore. No one does. Not even myself. Although I should. But really? Self-importance is indifference to everyone. So why should I? The will is lost. I have not written any alter series lately because it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t mat