Weird Brain-Storm For An Artsy Film
The campfire. Calm. An open space for women to explore themselves and their emotions. Raw, heart wrenching.
Each story plays out in a dance-like dream. But it’s dark, trauma, hate, pain, with the brightest yellows and warmest oranges.Â
The palette is warm, the tone is cold, the hugs are flames and the words are ice.Â
Story one, the mother that wasn’t there. What is it to be without a mother? The mother that nurtures, that loves, that holds you, away with all that you are told makes you a woman. How do you become yourself when you don’t even know what you are meant to be. Other women guide you through life but they are just that: other women. They aren’t Her. They aren’t who you need. And nothing can ever live up to that.
Story two, the husband that wouldn’t leave. Home is where the heart is but he broke in, hand diving in between your rib-cage, and tore it out. Home is with him now, the chain he tied around it confirms this. Four walls, but you are feeling more and more as if they need padding. He is good at making you feel that, bad at making you feel much else. Love went away the light in his eyes did.
Story three, the lost daughter. No map is needed to find her, she is exactly where you left her but that’s it. You left her. You. And now what? How does a mother cope with knowing that it was her fault? Do they ever?
Story four, the eternal hand print left behind. No means no until it doesn’t. No means no until they cover their ears. No means no until they just don’t care. And he didn’t care at all.
