I do not possess a sufficient grasp on the human language and intellectual powers to articulate just how this movie made me feel (leaning on both sides of astonishment and frustration). Maybe using the word “film” isn’t doing it any justice. I have seen nothing else quite like it, ever and maybe forever. Through Tarkovsky’s subjective purview, I saw the mountains becoming valleys, words creating pictures, and from these pictures, they glued together the broken fragments of a dying mind. The deconstruction of the psyche must go through an act of memorial reconstruction. "And I can't wait to see this dream in which ill be a child again and feel happy again because everything will still be ahead, everything will be possible..."

For time remembers all things and all things matter to time - Man, father, woman, mother, child, son, their tears, their love, their fights, their plights as the war came and went, the bushes, the plants, the birds, butterflies, headless chickens, corridors, homes – An ethereal stream of consciousness devoid of meaning but laden with feelings. Like watching a leaf falling into the water, causing a ripple in the flow of time, time that places the future in front of the present and the present before the past and so forth. It is exasperating, unflappable, inscrutable, and unreadable and so you can find any other similar synonyms to describe its sibylline shape and form. I admired it as much as I hated it but there I was plunging into this alienated world as if dropping straight into dead space, into a headspace that holds a fractured mirror up to its vastness, the vastness that reflects upon time and tide. Otherworldly.

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