#write-ups

and weaves her dream with the wool

of twilight .

She's the night love,

I find that assertion to be mostly fallacious considering that, having read several notably influential critics like David Edelstein (and believe me I think he’s a blowhard of the highest order) and even studied the criticisms of various youtube assholes who totally aren’t influential at all, I was able to conclude that most if not all of these analysts offer criticism wholly unrelated to the sexuality and gender of the protagonist. While Edelstein himself does verge toward a shallow edge by insulting the looks of Mila Kunis, even his wrinkled old ass emphasizes the importance of narrative coherence in a film.If I write-up a film, my primary concern with fictional storytelling is how effectively it tells its story, and the mileage of this varies per medium in question. In the medium of film, Jupiter Ascending falls short in this department, which I believe I articulated quite thoroughly. I’m not an intersectionalist, so I have no habit of seeing things through that lens. It’s also puzzling to me that anyone would claim sexism on the part of movie journalists when many such journalists today are female, and there have also been female led movies with admirably written protagonists since the days of Audrey Hepburn all the way through Sigourney Weaver and into the modern era.This isn’t to deny the existence of sexism but, if negative critical reviews alone could kill movie franchises, The Fast and the Furious would have been down the toilet long ago.In the case of Jupiter Ascending, it’s merely a strange thought that anyone would assume that motivation on the part its detractors, when there are many more valid shortcomings on which anyone could focus, matters of artistic merit and narrative consistency, and on which most critics seem to focus without penning a single sexist word. You know, sort of like how I negatively critiqued the film but wasn’t also a sexist jerk while doing so.

I see all the blues of your eyes spilled in the sea of your despair. I see it when you say "perhaps in another life" while absolutely certain of its singularity. I see all the pearls dispersed from the grief of your gifts. I feel your heart when it contracts and compresses with the remnants of the ones you struggle to bid adieu. I see when your heart fails to free them from the web of veins from the tip of your head to the end of your toes. I see when you bring them back from the dead with your blood, because you're too afraid to cut your arteries while cutting them off from the tendrils of your lost memories.

What's poetry, if not the tearing out of your heart right from the curves of your ribs and making it a pot of ink, and filling the nib of your soul, to seal the darkest, hardest, and barest of your emotions? Perhaps an autopsy of your tangible and intangible assets, that leaves you vulnerable and victorious at the same time.

I, too, am claustrophobic, but not to the narrowed walls of bricks, but to the pressing of flesh. I, too, am suffocated, but by the hypocrisy of their souls. When they dress layers and layers of deceit to their dreading bods. I, too, am gravely strangled by the air of their lungs, when all they do is lie to my soul.

In the breaking, slipping movements of malice, my heart realized that only the sorrows of my soul can save me from myself. That's the cure and care I need. My own hurt is my atonement and autonomy.