I’m not saying that I can’t get all emotional, but I usually don’t. For example, the movies that I pick are generally not the kind that one tends to get all weepy about. Bring on starships, enemy fighters and the kickass fighting moves, but these ingredients don’t generally bring on the tears. Count me out on any movie that going to elicit criticisms of the scholarly kind. I can get all didactical about influences, tone and geographical inconsistencies in film, too, but I don’t want to. I don’t usually want to dissect moments in film… I want to savor special moments like a good aroma, like the smell of an impending thunderstorm on a humid day.
I cried last night while watching a movie. I’m too embarrassed to name it, but I’ll be honest about this; dealing with romance is not my greatest skill. The sketching of love is better shown by true painters, true musicians, true artists. But for this writer, it is too tainted with things left unfelt, or rather, unexpressed. True love takes courage, I’m at least sure of this. And call me chicken but at least I know myself. I know my limits, I know my own restraints.
I admire those that wear their hearts on their sleeves. At least they have the courage to state their needs, their desires. I, however, have yet to find someone that I want to tell all. I’ve been attracted to many, but I haven’t said the things that I know I’ve been saving for someone else. I don’t know this person who I want to share my secrets with. Not yet, at least.