In his world, he is normal.
Sick people will repeatedly play their hurt memory fragments in their minds, reinforcing the memory again and again.
Fear of being a drag on yourself and being attached to someone who accompanies you.
Death can be a gift.
Fear of the familiar disappearing, fear of being superfluous.
Scared and unable to express.
The branches are luxuriant, but I have no support. Wind and rain, nowhere to sleep.
Am I the master here, or am I a nasty villain.
Am I the master of my own life, or am I a passenger lost in time.
I am afraid that I will slowly forget, and I am afraid that you will be disappointed slowly.
The end of life loses its leaves, like a ignorant baby.
Seeing love lost, but helpless. Will be scolded at each other, but can't really get angry. I can't remember, I can't recognize the person I love, I am helpless and angry, struggling in vain, trying to fabricate memories that never existed to convince myself that I may have lived soberly and happily, to convince the person I love to never leave.
Death is not the loss of life, but out of time.
The daughter is the fulcrum, and the daughter is leaving. The watch is the fulcrum, the watch cannot be found, the apartment is the fulcrum, the apartment has changed. Slip is the fulcrum, the painting disappears. The watch is moving, the water is dripping, the time is passing, the memory is withering. Old records are difficult to repair, and complete songs cannot be released.
If you are forgotten by anyone in the world, or no one remembers you, is this "death"?
Alzheimer's is a nightmare that you can't wake up from.
Doubt to resist to collapse. Amnesia to disability to bereavement.
"I'm obviously fine" "I just want to know the time" "Am I going to be abandoned" "What did I do wrong" "Who am I"
Each shot fills each other's unexpressed void. Every vacancy is full of helplessness and loneliness.
View more about The Father reviews
