I watched dead man walking for the first time, as assigned by my psychologist.

So why did the good doctor tell me to watch this movie through a “theraputic lens”? The jingoist notion of fighting to the bitter end in a haze of anger and hatred only to have to admit that it was already over all along? Traumatizing myself with the emotional dismissiveness of asking after John Galt? The bitter truth of controlling absolutely nothing? The nihilistic black hole of pointless effort? The terrorizing fear of loneliness? The agonizing paradox of the complexities of the human experience including the redemptive notion of blind love? The fact that not one of us exists in a silo leaving behind a consequenceless wake as we speed blindly on? The concept of family and individual forever broken by the flash of tragedy? The guilt and shame of helping? The irrelevance of existence in relation to existence? The nobility of loyalty to one’s word? That everyone is praying to the same god over the same situation only to have no one truly be answered? The idea that the institution, by virtue, cannot care? The deep longing for meaningful connection despite outward apathy towards it? The uneasy feeling that goes with finally and honestly seeing the grey? That everyone awaits my final concession that all I can save is my dignity with some conclusory honesty regarding the truth of my capacities and who I am now? That no one will ever find what they’re looking for as long as they keep looking for it outside of themselves?

No.

I think it was because of the actors’ fantastic but personally unrelateable performances.

Until next time, stay revovered!