Two nameless individuals cross paths but seem unable to really reach out to each other. She wants to choose her own death, preferably in a dispassionate way, he is struggling with the suicide of his brother. With metaphors, flashbacks and a quest to define their life, it is not easy to understand where they are going, nor exactly why. I watched them from a distance, intrigued but not emotionally involved, wondering about their motivations.
Nobody had told her that an ingrained desire for death was wrong, this conviction that tugged at her. Even if she realized it was wrong, she wouldn’t have given up on it. After all, a conviction had to be rationalized. She had restrained her other self so many times—when a relationship went awry, when she was in a lethargic slump, when her artistic pride was injured, when nobody acknowledged her, when she lost all confidence in her work, when she felt stuck in her art practice. She told her other self it wasn’t the right time, that dying in a state of failure, dying without ever having accomplished anything, was an act of discarding life, not actively choosing death. She wanted to be someone who didn’t throw life away but voluntarily opted for death.
