I feel like I grew up on loneliness. A loneliness temporarily drowned out by the melancholy of relationships awkwardly meandering between the platonic and the hypersexual.

The art of film figures out at some point in its history how to shoot in wider ratios, thus becoming the channel not only for humans and their private lives, but for an eventfulness proper to society. Now that our society is riddled with a sickness, blown up into the cells that once made up its whole, an emptiness lives where once was the bustle of modern progress. Squeezed between the lungs of our melancholic solitude, we reach to grab onto the nearest ship-wreck: a show, a book, an identity. And at some point we stumble upon another crew member - a person who posesses the same claustrophobic experience of themselves as us.

All distance blows up in flames. We get a sudden exit from the torture of being by ourselves and it seems as if we are finally a part of something bigger. And then, just as quickly as it appeared, the structure collapses in on itself. Longing for another turns into a longing for death: both buried underground, away from the confusing and despicable spectacle we have for a world (a vision shared by one of the letters of a writer surely haunting the generations post-00s - Franz Kafka).

At the end, all is in its place. He is now an adult, no longer victim to the destructive forces of his adolescent passion, but yet again the question hovers above his head: what if the world was a different place to begin with?