I am alive because there is a god in my world. He created me and created all things. His name is Kim Ki-duk.
My God, is a disabled God. Created by his hand is a life as broken as I am.
The gods have the tools of creation in their hands. If Linklater's tool is time, Nabokov's tool is gloom, and Kim Kidd's tool is cruelty. They use these tools to carve their lives: - if you have enough patience to wait for time, you will have enough warm feelings (Linklater); if you want to spy on the inner shadow, you can't balance desire and morality (Nabokov); because you dig deep into the scars of the world , so life is incomplete (Kim Ki-duk). Naturally, your world is different because your God is different.
My god gave me a gray and cold world. Dirty and cramped corners, stiff and cold machinery, pale and dull soul. I am one of the imperfections in his hands, and I was born without perception. As you know, I have no love. I am a lonely wandering soul in the world, all people and things are blurred and cold backgrounds.
It's ridiculous and contemptible to have a woman. I'm going to ask for money, why did she take off her clothes? I hate the temperature of the flesh, the smell of my disgusting breasts. If I had a woman in my life, it would have to be the target on my wall. What I would do would never be to bow down to them, I would whip them and stab them. That idiot is even more absurd. The person who owes the debt should pay back the money. With such a simple truth, is the mother's sadness and helplessness the reason for forgiveness?
Mother, what is mother? One corner of the scarlet skirt stung my eyes. She said she was the mother who gave birth to me. Originally, I was pure like all things, eating, sleeping, working, and wet dreams, like stone and wood like moss. The dodging scarlet at the skirt corners is the devil's smudge - I hate it. It came, expanding into a bloody pleasure, and my ferocity culminated. I calmed myself down with masochism, and cut off my own flesh—to put my flesh back in your womb, maybe I can forgive. You swallowed it, but I still hate it, I hate it even more. Let my soul and perception re-enter your womb, and get close to you to a negative distance... You don't know, I don't know, I actually believed you right away, and I gave myself to you in the most direct way. I still hate you. Before this, I didn't even hate you.
I torture you because I miss you. A long, long time ago, many, many nights, misses devoured me and grew into a huge monster. It was so frightening that I had to face it with a hundredfold ferocity, I thought I had defeated it long ago, and it would have been dead for a long time if you didn't show up.
You came, with stubborn love and tears, and protected me under your wings. I used to be so eager for you, so eager to be unwilling to seriously distinguish. The original feeling of love is like this, the huge happiness makes me extremely dizzy. I can't believe I have you, I want to hold you firmly. Mother, I don't want to violate you, I just want to be close to you.
You let me know that this world has colors, emotions, and flavors that are different from white water chicken. I love seeing you knitting a sweater for me as soon as I get home. You disappeared so fast, I didn't have time to tell you. I don't want to go back to that cold world, where I have no heart. I understand people's love of mother and son, the love of husband and wife.
You are dead and I am reborn. I have a soul, and my original, pure, unreasonable evil has dissipated. Your real child gets so much love from you, can you give me a little bit? Wrap me with the love that you knitted stitch by stitch, hug me with your gradually cold body, I only need a corner. Your love is so much, so much that it includes longing, doting, grief, hatred, revenge, pity, confusion, repentance..., so much to heavy, so much to frenzy, so much to destruction. I want to ask my God if both my simple evil and my mother's complex love can be redeemed.
You died, taking away the color you added to the world. Restoring the dark and cold world is so abominable, and the people I have hurt are so pathetic. Shall I add a splash of color? With my blood, imitate your warm skirt; with my flesh, in exchange for the peace of the soul.
A scarlet, like a crack, cut through the world.
View more about Pieta reviews
