I think I have this problem of shuttering my emotions most of the time, while being more invested in fiction than I should.
Got to bed at half past seven this morning, engrossed in André Aciman’s Call Me by Your Name, a book I never thought would affect me this much considering its genre. But it did, and I finished the last third of it after waking up seven hours later, eyes welling with unshed tears and that heavy leaden tug on the chest I get at the end of a very good, and very sad, book. It pulled me into the story, got me lost in its wonderfully-strung words, as I delved into the explicit narration. I don’t even like first person narration much; but this, this was beautiful prose.
Most of us can’t help but live as though we’ve got two lives to live, one is the mockup, the other the finished version, and then there are all those versions in between. But there’s only one, and before you know it, your heart is worn out, and, as for your body, there comes a point when no one looks at it, much less wants to come near it. Right now there’s sorrow. I don’t envy the pain. But I envy you the pain.
Twenty years was yesterday, and yesterday was just earlier this morning, and morning seemed light-years away.
― André Aciman, Call Me by Your Name
It seems that I’ve been putting myself through emotional strainers lately. Under the recommendation of Shamis, I started watching Aku no Hana (Flowers of Evil), a beautifully-shot rotoscoped anime which explores the tumultous psychology of another coming-of-age boy. I couldn’t bear to watch more than two episodes in one sitting- it made me too depressed, too hollowed-out from the darkness. But it’s clever, and it’s unexpected, and I want to know how it ends.