i think he was on meth

i think he was on meth

To everyone on a flight from London to Dallas on April 29th, how loud were the stifled sobs from row 29

To everyone on a flight from London to Dallas on April 29th, how loud were the stifled sobs from row 29

this is genuinely caught me off guard. the personification of grief here is so bizarre and overwhelming in a way that just works. didn’t expect to be this impressed tbh just... wow.

this is genuinely caught me off guard. the personification of grief here is so bizarre and overwhelming in a way that just works. didn’t expect to be this impressed tbh just... wow.

I have a soft spot for stories that let trauma take shape, a physical manifestation you can see almost reach out and touch instead of feeling it sit inside you...maybe it’s because externalizing pain feels like a kind of mercy, like placing that unbearable weight somewhere outside yourself something you can face rather than letting it turn inward and curdles into shame, into a self-blame that never really leaves you whispering that the damage is yours and yours alone, and this film understands that in a way that feels too close.

Here grief takes the form of a human-sized crow, an omen of death by nature, yet carried with this strange magnetic pull, eerie but heartbreakingly beautiful, something you shouldn’t want to look at yet can’t bring yourself to turn away from...it feels born from loss, but it never becomes monstrous, if anything it feels necessary, inevitable, because grief doesn’t settle gently into the corners of your life, it comes with wings and shadow so wide and heavy it distorts everything around it and maybe losing yourself to despair begins there, in the refusal to meet the CROW, in letting it circle endlessly above you without ever acknowledging why it stays, what it carries, what it asks of you.

this film lets it land, and in doing so it lets grief exist fully, not as something to overcome or outgrow, but as an experience to sit with, to witness, to endure in all its terrible undeniable beauty, until it stops being just a symbol of loss and becomes the shape that holds what was once loved, a presence that aches precisely because it still means something.

I have a soft spot for stories that let trauma take shape, a physical manifestation you can see almost reach out and touch instead of feeling it sit inside you...maybe it’s because externalizing pain feels like a kind of mercy, like placing that unbearable weight somewhere outside yourself something you can face rather than letting it turn inward and curdles into shame, into a self-blame that never really leaves you whispering that the damage is yours and yours alone, and this film understands that in a way that feels too close.

Here grief takes the form of a human-sized crow, an omen of death by nature, yet carried with this strange magnetic pull, eerie but heartbreakingly beautiful, something you shouldn’t want to look at yet can’t bring yourself to turn away from...it feels born from loss, but it never becomes monstrous, if anything it feels necessary, inevitable, because grief doesn’t settle gently into the corners of your life, it comes with wings and shadow so wide and heavy it distorts everything around it and maybe losing yourself to despair begins there, in the refusal to meet the CROW, in letting it circle endlessly above you without ever acknowledging why it stays, what it carries, what it asks of you.

this film lets it land, and in doing so it lets grief exist fully, not as something to overcome or outgrow, but as an experience to sit with, to witness, to endure in all its terrible undeniable beauty, until it stops being just a symbol of loss and becomes the shape that holds what was once loved, a presence that aches precisely because it still means something.

I have a soft spot for stories that let trauma take shape, a physical manifestation you can see almost reach out and touch instead of feeling it sit inside you...maybe it’s because externalizing pain feels like a kind of mercy, like placing that unbearable weight somewhere outside yourself something you can face rather than letting it turn inward and curdles into shame, into a self-blame that never really leaves you whispering that the damage is yours and yours alone, and this film understands that in a way that feels too close.

Here grief takes the form of a human-sized crow, an omen of death by nature, yet carried with this strange magnetic pull, eerie but heartbreakingly beautiful, something you shouldn’t want to look at yet can’t bring yourself to turn away from...it feels born from loss, but it never becomes monstrous, if anything it feels necessary, inevitable, because grief doesn’t settle gently into the corners of your life, it comes with wings and shadow so wide and heavy it distorts everything around it and maybe losing yourself to despair begins there, in the refusal to meet the CROW, in letting it circle endlessly above you without ever acknowledging why it stays, what it carries, what it asks of you.

this film lets it land, and in doing so it lets grief exist fully, not as something to overcome or outgrow, but as an experience to sit with, to witness, to endure in all its terrible undeniable beauty, until it stops being just a symbol of loss and becomes the shape that holds what was once loved, a presence that aches precisely because it still means something.

I have a soft spot for stories that let trauma take shape, a physical manifestation you can see almost reach out and touch instead of feeling it sit inside you...maybe it’s because externalizing pain feels like a kind of mercy, like placing that unbearable weight somewhere outside yourself something you can face rather than letting it turn inward and curdles into shame, into a self-blame that never really leaves you whispering that the damage is yours and yours alone, and this film understands that in a way that feels too close.

Here grief takes the form of a human-sized crow, an omen of death by nature, yet carried with this strange magnetic pull, eerie but heartbreakingly beautiful, something you shouldn’t want to look at yet can’t bring yourself to turn away from...it feels born from loss, but it never becomes monstrous, if anything it feels necessary, inevitable, because grief doesn’t settle gently into the corners of your life, it comes with wings and shadow so wide and heavy it distorts everything around it and maybe losing yourself to despair begins there, in the refusal to meet the CROW, in letting it circle endlessly above you without ever acknowledging why it stays, what it carries, what it asks of you.

this film lets it land, and in doing so it lets grief exist fully, not as something to overcome or outgrow, but as an experience to sit with, to witness, to endure in all its terrible undeniable beauty, until it stops being just a symbol of loss and becomes the shape that holds what was once loved, a presence that aches precisely because it still means something.