Went out with my mom last night to get her away from the kids. Had some fantastic mexican food and went to see The Passion Of The Crist. I'm not an overtly religious person, but my mother is. She is what I like to term a holy roller. But I give the woman credit. She knows that just ticks me off if someone tries to push their beliefs on me, and that I like to come to conclusions on my own terms.
Although she did mention once on the way home that she wished I didn't have the beliefs that I do. The rest of the way home, we talked about the performance of the actors and the story itself. She found it to be a pretty accurate interpretation. I'll have to take her word on that. The most in depth I came to reading the bible was the storybooks I read as a kid. I really liked the movie. Some of Gibson's camera shots added more of an impact to several scenes in my opinion.
Got the idea for this drabble/poem from saving saava's screen caps of The Choice.
I can see her, but not hear.
I can feel, but have no sense of touch.
She moves as an echo of herself through the crowds.
Casting aside the misery of others as she drowns within her own.
Her cries are smothered from the memories trailing behind her.
The comfort causing even more pain.
I reach out, unable to grasp the physical.
The tangible lost forever to me.
So far reaching are ties that bind us to one another, and yet we are never more apart.