When it comes to things that we have to say but are vital, we usually neither speak up nor tell those around us, our close friends, and those who are eager to hear our story. If this statement is true, then not only people but also times have such a simple, in fact, roundabout and trivial way of communication, which not only tells the purely personal things to the passing passers-by in front of them. Can we say that all the lives, works, and actions at work are nothing but the full unfolding of those old, fleeting, sentimental, and feeble moments in one's own life. To us, these are dull days that come when night falls, after the hustle and bustle of the city has quieted down, or just take a deep breath at an open window. If we do not surrender to sleep so willingly, there is no way of knowing what encounters await us. Reminiscing about the past is like peeling off the cocoon in the depths of the vast sea of time and space, carefully selecting the past that is engraved in our hearts. These pasts may just be the inadvertent smile of a person who is all too familiar, or it may be just the bare ash tree in the neighboring village that has been around for centuries, or it may even be just an out of nowhere think. But who would have guessed that an inadvertent sadness or joy could ultimately affect the following life? If it is our past that makes us who we are, it is the memory that makes this visible. Love of life is probably the slogan we can easily say, but just like letting go of the past four words, the more philosophical the monologue is, the paler it is. Perhaps, for a person who looks back on the past, what is important is not what he experienced, but the weaving of his own memory. When we wake up every morning, we hold in our hands nothing but the messy, loose imprints of our past lives, woven into our lives by forgetting and memories. Through conscious behavior, and even purposeful memory, we dismantle this fabric every day, weaving the ornament of oblivion. In any case, what has been experienced is limited, it is always limited to a certain range of experience; and the memories of this event are infinite, because they are but a key that will connect it with its previous After that, the piles and piles are opened one by one. It's hard to tell why the shocking, unstoppable quest for happiness that pervades this film is rarely recognized by its audience. After all, in many cases, movies tend to make audiences learn from religious, feminist, and ascetic routines that they are accustomed to and familiar with.
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