At Eternity’s Gate/The Sorrowing Old Man by Vincent Van Gogh

Let me begin this entry with, a hello.

Hello.

hi, it’s nice to greet you again. I also want to say sorry to you, to this platform and to myself. Many months ago when i decided to start a medium I made a promise that this would be a media…

Swallow (2019) — dir. Carlo Mirabella-Davis

I put it in the drawer, the thing that killed me.
At night, i heard its lament, lulling a plea.
The thing that killed me fed on my tomorrows,
so present days feel like woes.

The other day i heard its screech of claws on a timber,
I thought i was sober.
Pills did not help.
I have knelt on thousand shrine,
Hours praying to the divine,

Nothing kills the thing that killed me.

Please…
these feet are aching of the crawling and the dragging, away from reality
this little heart is weary,
because each day,
the thing that killed me took a shred of soul within me,
Until i am not more than atomic dust,
clutching the wind,
drifting by the sea.

At Eternity’s Gate (2018) — dir. Julian Schnabel

This is my first letter to you, Vincent.

It is now December here on earth. The month where sky above our heads are shriveling in grey, sun’s spark had dwindled, stars glint like a dead man’s eyes, pale and lifeless. Nights grew longer, and the absence of our loved ones…

Titane (2021) — dir. Julia Ducournau

I am,
i am tired:
of life,
of lungs, breathing in the reeks of ignominy,
of opprobrious chatters polished so shiny,
of its hidden calamity.

I am,
I am a lump of frail flesh, enthralled by the suits and ties, and the lies.
Hands slipped under my skin, i am a trophy to win.
I am a zenith of rage. Basking in the rays of vengeance, i have been forged, dented, molded. An evil ascends.

I am, i am.
I am nadir,
I am shadow,
I am an end.

All Too Well (Short Film) (2021) — dir. Taylor Swift

Why do we turn our back on each other, after a few slipping kisses.
your stab of dagger reminisces:
Who would have thought, you’d bury me in my sunday best,
Sheathed in a bed sheet, we once shared our lustful sweats on.
Flowers you grow in the garden where we made love, now you sow onto my tombstone.

What do we despise?
Our night is not tender. Our night is pitchforked fights.
Together we solemnly vowed in spites.
In sickness and health, but we’re too sick,
For better, for worse, but we’re worst.
Why do we love,
with love that is more than a love.

Sound of Metal (2019) — dir. Darius Marder

(Part 1)

The author tapped the cold glass window and the dew from last night’s heavy rain slopping down accordingly. He’s cold. His teeth almost chattering. The heater, a machine twice his mother’s age clatters indistinctly. Doing nothing. …

Belladonna of Sadness (1973) — dir. Eiichi Yamamoto

My skin is not my skin.
My skin goes by many names,
Bible paper inked by bruises,
A pristine silk stained of calluses.

Mother said my skin summons demons,
So, I am told, my skin ought to remain unseen.
To whom it belongs,
To the eyes of all the wrongs.

Macbeth (2015) — dir. Justin Kurzel

We are not dead. Yet.

Kettles are still burning, the paddles are still turning.

We are not dead.

Maybe one day, on halcyon days.

When tracers stop mapping the great suffering,

When miners unearth heirloom ring.

But we are not dead,

Noble spirits said.

A Ghost Story (2017) — David Lowery

You’re sleeping now. Finally. I thought.

I wonder what dream you’re entering right now. Is it beautiful or terrifying like the last one. You may not know this but you cried in your sleep a lot of times. Like the other night, I think it was 2am and you just…

Lintang

a tiny bug dangling over the lamp dreaming of becoming wordsmith. Inq📩 sekarlintanghapsar@gmail.com

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