A road trip in the brain

Creola 2022-03-22 09:02:16

I like to travel, I mean aimless, leisurely travel, not a simple back and forth transformation of time and space. With this mindset, the perception of movies and reading has become an important part of my life.


When I was very young, I had a small box of toys that hadn't been updated or discarded for a long time, they were always there. And I built my childhood through them.

Growing up, I was slowly led by the outside world, producing a confused growth experience, becoming closed-minded and opinionless. Grades are the only indicator of brain function, thank you for not being treated like a fool.

I never thought that I had any youth story at all, or that I was just a small piece of the puzzle in the background of the big era, or a dispensable existence. Love is the product of fantasy, through personal lust to vent the original desires disciplined by social ideology.

Escape, escape, is my only remaining rebellion. Rock music, heavy metal, like the feeling of tearing, let me shape a new self, and at the same time of joy, I also lived through torment. At one point it wanted to kill, the self who had been submissive in life and whose silence was golden.

Cross the wilderness, cross the creek, enter the jungle, stand on the top of the mountain. Just thinking about throwing myself out, in a place where I can't find it.


Broken I still come back, continue to pick up the broken life.

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Extended Reading
  • Mitchell 2022-03-28 09:01:07

    This is the kind of movie that "just feel and don't try to understand". Charlie Kaufman's philosophy is like a huge black hole, which forces the viewer into it, suffocation, despair, and absurdity. The images are presented in In front of the text, he seems extremely thin, and he is also a rare director who still insists on visualizing obscure literature and secret and complicated personal thoughts.

  • Pearlie 2022-01-05 08:01:59

    Seeing Frederick’s "A Lone Monk by the Sea" hanging in the living room of Jake's house, the sea fog in the painting turned into heavy snow in the film. Zong Baihua quoted this painting in "A Walk in Aesthetics" to explain that both Western painters and Chinese painters have a love for endless space, and what he said in Chinese painting "sees the infinity in the finite, and returns to the finite in the infinite". With universal applicability, what is the difference between Wang Wei's "Thousands of miles from the pillow, and the rooms from the window" is different from the snow in Jake's heart.

I'm Thinking of Ending Things quotes

  • Young Woman: [about his onset dementia] I'm sorry that y-you're...

    Father: That's okay. Truth is, I'm looking forward to when it gets very bad and I don't have to remember that I can't remember!

  • Young Woman: Coming home is terrible whether the dogs lick your face or not; whether you have a wife or just a wife-shaped loneliness waiting for you. Coming home is terribly lonely, so that you think of the oppressive barometric pressure back where you have just come from with fondness, because everything's worse once you're home. You think of the vermin clinging to the grass stalks, long hours on the road, roadside assistance and ice creams, and the peculiar shapes of certain clouds and silences with longing because you did not want to return. Coming home is just awful. And the home-style silences and clouds contribute to nothing but the general malaise. Clouds, such as they are, are in fact suspect, and made from a different material than those you left behind. You yourself were cut from a different cloudy cloth, returned, remaindered, ill-met by moonlight, unhappy to be back, slack in all the wrong spots, seamy suit of clothes dishrag-ratty, worn. You return home moon-landed, foreign; the Earth's gravitational pull an effort now redoubled, dragging your shoelaces loose and your shoulders etching deeper the stanza of worry on your forehead. You return home deepened, a parched well linked to tomorrow by a frail strand of... Anyway... You sigh into the onslaught of identical days. One might as well, at a time... Well... Anyway... You're back. The sun goes up and down like a tired whore, the weather immobile like a broken limb while you just keep getting older. Nothing moves but the shifting tides of salt in your body. Your vision blears. You carry your weather with you, the big blue whale, a skeletal darkness. You come back with X-ray vision. Your eyes have become a hunger. You come home with your mutant gifts to a house of bone. Everything you see now, all of it: bone.