On Readers

There exist qualities, so intense, so extreme in readers, that no film to date has inspired. As if the words themselves are but a gateway into one’s inner self that no picture is able to express. It is a secret so many have kept safe – not through their silence – but their inability to project the meaning of it. In those quiet reaches every kind of hope and despair, every occurrence of one’s nature, are felt, it is a crescendo so fierce, so explosive, that one has to jump up and scream in their solitude. One wonders why others are not present. Why, when I retreat so deeply into these pages, do I fail to recount to others where I have been when I resurface? And why, upon my return, must I conform once again?

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