Persona

Much more defined by our exterior than interior, a silly statement to make by the truth they're an intertwined essence permeating through all of us. How a man touches the surface of a woman but never is a woman, how a child is only truly living once entirely separated from their mother but never not their mother, and how we live in the screen by living by it. The only truth is feeling, until it pours out of a body and is translated into a pathetically feminine sob. By inaction of the translation we think we can maybe become in tune with the exterior, however the cruel truth is this inaction is action and our consciousness does not allow unfiltered, untranslated intake of exterior. Destined to be forever spiteful that we are human, that we are a human, that we are a thing. A thing ready to be translated, a thing there beyond present, a thing and much less the human we feel inside. The profound relation and truth I found inside Persona is idiosyncratic. In that sense, Persona becomes it's viewer, we listen to art we will never talk back to and vice versa. Once again we're proven of that strange oneness, nonetheless it's jumbled, confusing, strange, messy and, as is all "facts", a falsely confident reflection into infinity, into impermanence. Oneness as a fact is false beyond life, as life is by nature insurmountably crushingly limiting.