The Ghost in the Machine

Yet again, you find yourself slowly immersing in B/W cinema. It’s more like floating than sinking. Less watching and more being watched. It is a background score with raw screeches for music. The walls are full of shadows. Shadows that are more than contours until the head turns to confront with a reflection you’ve searched in vain in-between exhaustive specks of red and green and blue.
It all started with Meshes of the Afternoon by Maya Daren. When I was young, I used to sit idly on terraces and simply watch clouds passing by. It was perhaps the ease in the transmission of clouds from sanguine, buoyant shapes dissolving into disparate entities on the verge of disappearing with time.
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Like Maya Daren. And the clouds. And us.
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