Walking Home, Stirred

Movies reveal more than we really care to admit. Cloaked with blanket of darkness we see our forgotten, secret sadness, nervous relief, joys, humanity and aspirations staring back at us like mirrors that glimmer of omnipresent recognition. We root for the star-crossed, deeply flawed heroes flickering onscreen and a portion of us depart our private selves and leap towards the scene to participate, to toss out lines we are too familiar to recite—heartaches and absolute pining for instance, are said, in different words, phrases, idioms, expressions and nuances, all talking about the same deep, throbbing wound that we carry in silence, only now, following the movements onscreen we are reminded, like intimate echoes, and we nod with tender, awakened consent.