Fruitless Friday Feelings

I was developing feelings for you.

That, despite me knowing what was in store or NOT in store for me – a mutuality.

Maybe I have challenged myself too far. From the get go, you had been nothing short of elusive. Pushed my luck still. Won a couple steps ahead. Didn’t mind falling back a thousand steps back every chance you get to hurt me. You may argue how the hell “hurt” happened when you did nothing but be kind. No, not by any deliberate effort but by not doing anything, by not feeling anything, by not acknowledging that I was developing feelings for you.

You’re too kind, too safe that it hurts. It hurts that I want you to feel for me too but your wall’s too high to climb, too thick to melt. Or that even when, on several occasions, you reclined enough for me to reach for you – and you to reach for me – it remained a whacking world between us. That world of your deep-seated beliefs, in which I may belong, with which I may, in every word, agree, all set in an extrinsically harmonical motion, all acceptable and tolerable except to be with you. Alone. Just you and I…as I develop feelings for you.

Because as thoughts run deep and varied in my head, so do the many episodes of nightmare and daymare I imagine you being with somebody else, or new, or with whoever has been allowing himself to develop feelings for you while you conveniently and consistently deny a hefty amount of which in return. Haven’t come to grips with the idea of passion and indifference marrying together. How could they? How could you?

I miss you, Mot Mot.

I miss the warmth of your every kiss.

I miss how it has always been a tryst.
I miss how I surrounded myself with orange because you love orange, despite me hating it because in my eye, you're all apple - dangerously sweet.

I miss you driving me home, me walking you home.

And the risk we carried with each embrace, or the spoon you’d raise.

Now, all this missing is useless.
All this pining fruitless.

I’m sorry I have left you.

I’m sorry there went myself, snuggling into the blanket of self-preservation.
I’m sorry I have developed feelings for you.

Phantom Winner

The unorthodox European style of directing, the poker-faced performances, the implosive nature of each scene, the tangible air of sophistication, the faded essence of its portraiture, the enigmatical story itself (an extreme paradigm of the love-career collision), and that elegant musical score it creepily dances to - that’s how queerly satisfying, Phantom Thread is. As manic-depressive as a cerebral film can get. 

A possible dark horse winner for Best Picture.

9.2/10 stars. 

Almost done with my Oscars marathon! 🎥🍿🤓

PS: Love this year’s films’ unpredictability. Odd scenarios coming heaps & thick, moment to moment. My kind of indulgence.