After reading Tarkovsky's "Mirror" in two separate sessions, whenever I fall asleep in the gentle recitation of Russian poetry, Bach's tunes will gradually wake me up. The wind whistling over the wilderness passes through the broken mirror, blurring the boundaries between past, present and future. The slow sound of rain, the sound of wind from nowhere, the sound of hurried footsteps, and the sound of burning firewood permeate the ambiguous narrative. I keep peeping and speculating on the memories of others, trying to piece together the beginning and end of things that are not my own, but the memory itself It's a whitewashed phantom. Gaze is a kind of "eternal seeing", the constantly approaching lens leads me to gaze at seemingly eternal things again and again, but they tilt, die, and collapse in the next second when they are still. The mirror is the reflection of the world, and others are also my reflection. I can feel the beauty, tremor and shock from the images that have nothing to do with myself, and the indescribable emotions are the best proof. Perhaps when we look into the mirror for a long time, we are also trying to peek at ourselves.
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