Paris, Texas ★★★★★

I remember the day I was told I had stomach cancer. The memories are so clear, yet so distant; I had made a (once) successful attempt to repress the memories of Senior Year of High School, especially this one. After hearing that news from my doctor, I fell deeper into my depressive state. I became mute, began to separate myself from those I cared about, and further spiraled down in Anorexia and Bulimia; I was preparing myself for death's warmth embrace, nothing was worth living for. My mistakes meant nothing, people wronging me meant nothing. Why did it matter when I was going to die? Luckily, it turned out I didn't have stomach cancer (after a blood test came back negative for was Celiac's Disease instead), but the emotional pain and drainage of my mentality remained. That pain haunted me and it still haunts me. Paris, Texas belongs in a special category of films that have dug up repressed memories of mine and there isn't any film out there that I can relate to on this emotional level than this one: this is one of the most devastating films I've ever seen. Travis and I walk the roads to death for different reasons, but the goal remains the same. No film shares the pain I went through at that time. No film has this caliber, this amount of sadness. No film gets me like this one did. Harry Dean Stanton understands this character and consumes it, he consumes people like me, and devours every ounce of pity and regret one person can hold. And it doesn't even need to be said: it's all in the eyes.

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