These are the films I’ve ended with.
I was aware that cinema’d been deconstructed here.
This amount of minutes, this innumerable quality of histories.
In my twenties, I’d spent days asking what cinema could be.
Since I turned thirty, the questioning has been suspended.
This is a segmental history of mine, that I wasn’t able to embrace in cinema.
Please be aware that these times of cinema have often cried for their unseen times.
I’d found these films on the street of my abandoned history.
Unrolling them, looking into them deeply,
and I sometimes read them aloud in the middle of night.
However, afterwards, I failed in giving them a state of mobility.
In the next morning, when you found these films, they’d already been forgotten, still unrisen.
Once, I thought cinema was for death, which only belongs to trivial times of the dead.
I’m walking toward death, with its dissipating remnant.
This letter is written for the piece Today’s glance with the formerly immobilized scene. (The title is quoted from “Conflict” by Stephane Mallarme.)
