Late at night I see myself sitting on the couch watching TV. I can see the wide tracking shot from behind coming in. It’s a one taker, that starts at the door, makes a turn in my oh so tiny apartment and stops on the image of me watching TV. The back of me can barely be seen as the camera’s focus rests on the screen in front of me. The mise-en-scène is backed up by classical music, which music exactly, I couldn’t tell you. It’s the classical Spotify playlist. But the music indicates that this moment is revealing, a peak into what appears to be a secret life. The focus is pulled and the camera shifts from the TV to the back of my head. It’s an intimate moment, that’s why the next shot is a larger close up or a narrow medium shot. I see the little hairs on my neck and the hairdo which is in need of a cut. The violin starts to play in the score of this scene, and I’m twirling my hair to the rhythm of the music. For a minute there, I realize I have become the image of my mother. I see flashbacks of my mother in her brown rocking chair, reading a book, rocking back and forth, twirling her hair to the sound of classical background music. Behind her head I can see the scratches on the chair, left by our late black cat Gandalf. The camera pulls in on her face, behind her glasses I see her green and greyish eyes going from left to right with the utmost intensity. The camera pulls back a little and I see her glasses, much different to the glasses she wears now. In her specs I see the reflection of the pages that she is consumed by. She turns the page and the camera makes a hard cut to my own computer glasses in which I can see the reflection of the TV series I’m watching. The camera lifts up slightly and behind the glasses I see my own green and slightly brown eyes watching the screen with the same intensity as my mother.
On the screen, the series Normal People is playing. It’s about two young people and their complicated relationship. It’s a frustrating watch for the viewer as it portrays the story of missed moments and unspoken words that ruin or dismiss a strong connection that is so blatantly obvious. The characters are ruled by their insecurities and shortcomings, which through no real fault of their own prevents them from being intertwined in anything romantically. Episode after episode, their crippling insecurity misses every opportunity of any chance at a happy life.
The image of myself watching tv abruptly cuts to a flashback of 2015 which comes rushing in. The mise-en-scène is now the bedroom of my ex-girlfriend. I’m sitting on her bed and she’s leaning against the window. The sun comes in through the curtains and we find ourselves in the midst of the warm colours of a beautiful morning. But the beautiful morning is soon interrupted when our insecurities have managed to get in through the sliding doors of her bedroom. She nervously tells me that she’s going through something personal. She looks over at me awaiting a reaction. I panic. It’s not something I can fix. Fear of abandonment takes over, of which my mind has convinced me is inevitable, if I can’t repair what is broken. So I push like the characters of Normal People, to see if she’ll stay. Through her tears she confirms that indeed she wants to stay. I finally exhale and live to fight another day. I can only imagine if it had been our relationship unfolding on TV and how frustrated the viewer would have been. Like the characters, consumed by my own shortcomings, I absolutely failed to show up for the person I so obviously loved. And she remained oblivious to my obvious, for lack of opening my mouth.
I wake up from the flashback and realize I have lost the TV storyline that has now become mere background noise. I feel a small hangover of guilt come over me. The camera angles of my own story have changed, to a large wide shot of me, ironically wide to show my small apartment and an obvious wide to enhance the isolation. The colours in my scene have changed to blue, to portray the feeling of guilt taking me prisoner. And as I want to go in yet another dark self deprecating downwards spiral, I notice something about this moment: I remember how to feel.
I turn off the TV and sit down at the table, because the feeling of feeling is overwhelming. I stare out of the window and the picture of myself start to fade away into yet another flashback. I see myself a year earlier sitting at this very same table. It’s 2019 and I’m fairly intoxicated. I’m on the phone. On the other side of the phone is the same ex-girlfriend whose voice I haven’t heard in four years up until that moment. I don’t remember what we’re talking about, but somehow miraculously the conversation is light. But light quickly turns to heavy when out of nowhere she asks me if I ever really loved her. Without hesitation I say yes. Yes I did. And I find so much comfort in the last word: did. Because did implies it’s in the past. And in the past love is allowed to exist without shame. Society has told me countless of times that for this love in particular I am well passed its expiration date. I exhale with relief and live to fight another day. Or so I think. As my ex-girlfriend, miles and miles away brings the question to the present. The words carefully travel through the phone. “Do you still love me”? Panic. I answer with “I don’t know”. I feel a certain kind of brave that I have kept my composure, but my heart softly whispers to me “you’re a liar”. “But that’s okay”.
I leave the flashback and suddenly realize that Jim Carrey’s The Mask, was never about the actual mask. We have arrived at the end of the my movie. For the last time that night I see myself sitting at the table but not in an isolated wide shot. I’m a close up, a close up of my once brown eyes that have mysteriously become more green over the years. The green dominated the iris, so you barely remember that the brown was really ever there at all.
It is morning when I write this, I am one with my computer. There are no special camera shots to explain the mood. I’m in bed, topless underneath the covers. Sweating out of honesty. The warm light of the morning shines on my bedroom window. The classical Spotify list fills the room with joy. I look out of the window and I can see all the colours of November. I finally inhale them all.
And for the first time in a long time, I live to feel another day.
