Where is the music coming from?

Glittering, gleaming, shining

cityscape. Cinema at its finest as a

pair take the wilderness as their

stage, their feet shuffling and

flying. All we hear is the swish of

her dress as it hits his trousers and

the sound of dust being kicked up

against the peak of humanity.

There is no music here. 

The full moon somehow has

enough light to give and we see

each sequins, each weave of their

expensively poor clothes, and

we are invoked as ghosts of

everlasting futures. Suspended

animation / willful suspension of

disbelief - it's all the same to us.

Different names, same surround

sound system. Moonlight is darker

with the smudges of the histories

and poems that clamour its name,

and we add silver lamplight to

make up for the humanity that

afflicts it. 

There is no perfect shadow here.

Let's change this picture a bit shall we? 

Add the dust of a landscape that

bears the weight of the artists it

failed to provide for. The ugly neon

of lamplights that would replace

the moonlight and the music

for the far away yet seemingly closeby

gaze of a stranger who looks at the

dancing couple in quiet nocturne

and assumes insanity. Get in the

sounds of incessant traffic and the

sleepless city, all the things the

movies want you to forget, want

you to pretend that they're not

there because they are. They are, in

the glaring Edison bulbs that reset

reality as soon as you step outside

the cinema Hall. The alien taste of

PVR popcorn as it leaves its

birthplace, divine essence fading

as it and the remaining soda

fizzles away: the magicians of

movies can only do so much. 

So little. 

Look at the picture again.

Recognise the laminated gaze that

you watch it with, sealing it in the

perfections of a code that took us

14 billion years to reach, and all we

try to do is make ourselves more

bearable. The human condition is

such a wretched thing, we can't

help but magnify and beautify the

best and the worst of us. To

forgive the villain as they break

down crying, Discomfort is an

estranged sibling. 

We try to run away from the dust

that tints the lenses, that used to

be us a few hours ago. But, the

past is the past, and we cannot

dwell there, cannot eat, cannot

disbelieve. We cannot outrun the

dust that should tint the picture. 

And so the lights dim to show you

only the FHD screen. Hidden

alcoves and sniper-placed

speakers shoot soft melodies into

our eardrums so that we might

believe. The seats you can sink

into if you try hard enough, and the

air smells of old popcorn. 

The armrest is sticky. The floor

littered with the offerings of

believers past. The seat is

uncomfortable just enough to

make you shift inches, if not rise

altogether to stretch your legs. 

Look at the picture. 

Do you believe?