It’s not like me to be writing a review of things or books or movies because as much as I enjoy indulging in all of the above listed activities, I have always felt that art can never be put into a box or viewed from just one perspective. The beauty of art and creativity lies in the fact that it is open to all sorts of interpretation and each opinion stands true in its own unique sense.
I have always been big into movies and series and feel the constant need to be hooked onto something, not really sure why, or maybe I do but shy in admitting. We indulge in art for the way it makes us feel and the things it makes us feel. And for this very reason I have this constant urge to fill in that gaping void by binging on series and novels. To feel things. Because somebody has already done the job of making sense of all of the emotions that overwhelm me and done a better job at it than I feel I could ever amount to. When I read a line or hear a dialogue that resonates deeply within me it gets me thinking about all of the people it would have moved too. Complete strangers, yet maybe not so strange. It’s funny how there is an overriding sense of being alone in the face of despair, like nobody could have felt the way you do, yet art stands to prove that this very notion is in fact shared by all of the human existence. Bordering fetishizing sadness almost.
But that is just another enticing part of this culture, the culture of art. It caters to everybody! In your loneliness and even in the moments you rejoice the most. The beauty of having shared an unsaid moment of solidarity with humanity as we know it.