Ice

The movie Fargo has the most breathtaking photography. Photography, as against cinematography, because that's just how certain scenes unravel. Random, startling, stunning snapshots of moments, frozen in time, right out of nowhere. Stark, frozen, pristine, bleached, desolate landscapes, snowed in, drowned, caked in white, and silhouettes, and breath, and smoke, and watery eyes.

If that isn't enough, the rest of the movie should be worth at least some of your time. A very strange story, even odder accents, the icy, unapologetic black humour -- the kind that makes you laugh cruelly, wallowing in the comfort of solitude, free from judgment. Or because of (or in spite of, perhaps??) Best Actress and Screenplay Academy Awards. Whatever works for you.

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Can fresh air and a frail, terrifyingly, achingly tantalising dream in your head keep you alive?

A thought, an idea that isn't mine to take pride in, to coddle, to derive purpose from, and yet I do, with uninhibited optimism, an utterly alien lack of cynicism, and inexplicable naiveté. I'm struggling to make sense of this absurdity, this aberration in my belief-system (or lack, thereof), this brazen contradiction of attitude. Mine, that is. Yes, I'm shamelessly self-involved.

The point being, the mere idea of the possibility a big picture down the road, the faintest whiff of arriving somewhere lifts the fog a little bit. Hope may just be an obese illusion, an upper, but I'm honestly past caring. Hell knows I need some escapism right now.

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Imitation/inspiration/influence/(insert suitable euphemism) may be the best form of flattery, but, like the elephant in the room, once pointed out, once acknowledged, reduces you to nothingness. Clinically peels off those layers, strips you bare, and painfully, painstakingly, coldly crushes you into pulp, that elephant's foot.