The suspense of judgement
When life is speeding by, overtaking my own inner, core pace, I find little delight in writing. Mundane events holds no inspiration, but thoughts and motivations to those actions do. Yet, I need to find precious time to read, breath, travel my mind in search of the obscure, the twisted, the raw…
The last weeks emotions have taken hold of me. But as reality is calling I put it aside. It’s futile, as my anger is holding a tight grip over my senses. I see my worst fears being re-enacted over and over, like a film being rewound where the end makes the beginning, looped for eternity.
I do my very best to tame the feelings of anger, and revenge. You see I hold very little trust in people. Trust is something you earn right? But like reputation, trust can so easily diminish, from one day to another existing only in ripples of the past. Faint echoes, smudged lines of paint…
—
I make myself a bath and pour the remainder of the bubble-bath into the soon to be overflowing tub. After a long day at a film set for a project I am working on, I am exhausted. My sinuses are bunged up and my throat feels swollen, coarse and raw. I imagine I taste blood so I rummage the bedside table drawer for a last caramel that bares a logo emblazoned wrapping of Swarovski. It tastes not dissimilar to a mild Vicks Blue.
The last props, a recently purchased Marie Claire, follows me to my steaming temporary residence. In the background “Me Gustas Tu” by Manu Chao is streaming. It takes me back to the streets of Paris. Images from La Haine, Irreversible and Lila dit ca blends in my own little private cinema whilst I close my eyes.
Minutes later the sound of an sms startles me and the film is gone, over, finito. I turn to my Marie Claire. I leaf through the magazine until I stumble across an article that captures my interest. In white and black bold letters against a red backdrop it announces “My Girlfriend was an assassin”*. I hold onto the word WAS as I fix my eyes on a black and white image of a beautiful, very much alive woman on the opposite page. From there on I am captured for the next 20 minutes as a new film is rolling for my eyes, this time my eyes engaged in savouring the black letters, words and sentences that stares back, unbiased to their message.
One of the last sentences seems to hold a more personal message however; “I have learnt to become less judgemental of the choices people make, even when they seem to be wrong.”
I think of recent events. Who am I to judge them? And who are you to judge me?
* Colombia: Between the Lines by Jason P Howe
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