#thedirector

Film is forever

The Director [Paulo Ravinski] | Uzdrav sa skoro

"Do not worry, moja hviezda. You will shine bright again."

Translation (from google): "Uzdrav sa skoro" → "Get well soon"

Tag list: @lonleydweller

Instead of offering sympathy, he sees your pain as a compelling story. He might document your suffering with his film camera, muttering about “raw emotion” and “genuine distress”, not out of cruelty, but because he believes hardship creates true art. However, after a while, he lowers the camera and, in a rare moment of sincerity, murmurs, “Do not worry, moja hviezda. You will shine bright again.”

If you’re sick, he demands you stay in bed, not out of kindness, but because “the body must be preserved for its final performance.” He’ll pace around your shared room like a neurotic director, making sure you “follow the script” (aka resting). If you try to get up too soon, he gives you an unimpressed look, forcing you to lay back down and warns, “Uzdrav sa sko.” It sounds like an order rather than encouragement.

Expect strange herbal concoctions, foreign medicines, or even unsettling treatments like cupping therapy because he read somewhere that “suffering must be drawn out like poison.” He watches you drink the odd-tasting brew with the same intensity as when he’s waiting for the perfect shot, nodding when you finally swallow it. “Good,” he says. “You are committed to the role.” He’ll also go to Albert for advice if he notices you aren’t getting any better.

He’s not the comforting type, but he’s always nearby. Sitting in a chair in the corner, watching with that unsettling intensity, taking mental notes, making sure you stay alive and well. It’s creepy, but oddly reassuring.

If you refuse to eat, he won’t take no for an answer. He won’t spoon-feed you (unless you physically cannot feed yourself), but he places food in front of you with the ominous expectation that you will eat it. Maybe it’s simple soup, maybe it’s an elaborate, foreign dish he says is good for “endurance.” Either way, there’s no escaping it. He won’t move until you take a few bites. “Even the strongest actors must sustain themselves,” he reminds you.

At some point, he sits beside you and reads to you a cryptic, philosophical book about how suffering forges the strongest individuals. “The weak perish. The strong endure. Like you. You… you are meant to endure.” His voice is firm, unwavering, like he’s willing your survival into existence.

If someone else hurt you, oh boy, he sees that as an unforgivable offense. Not because he’s particularly sentimental, but because “only I control the suffering in my productions.” Whoever wronged you? They just became the next star of his next film… and that’s never a good thing.

If you’re vulnerable, he becomes oddly territorial. He won’t outright say he cares, but his actions, subtly positioning himself between you and others, ensuring you’re not disturbed, keeping an eerie watch over your surroundings, speak volumes. No one gets near you unless he allows it (Surprise, he doesn’t).

If you can’t sleep, he might put on old, eerie orchestral film scores, claiming “this is the soundtrack of the subconscious mind.” It’s not exactly relaxing, but hey, it’s better than silence. If that doesn’t work, to his minor disappointment, he’ll climb into bed with you and let you cuddle into him. He’s surprisingly warm even though he’s been undead for nearly 19 years.

He won’t admit it, but if you start getting better, there’s a shift. His stare lingers less like he’s observing a specimen and more like he’s… relieved? He won’t acknowledge it, though. Except maybe a chaste kiss on the forehead or a lingering touch on your face.

I apologize if there is no photo credit. I sadly have forgotten where these came from. However, if I do remember, I will post it.