Here’s the problem with me trying to write anything. I vomit passion. It works its way out of my pores, it rambles out of my mouth, it infects my fingers. Anything I write about anything no less than six months after I experience it, is horriblly disfigured by my passions. And the feelings I have now or will have then can be completely contradictory, and dammit I don’t really care.

There’s a certain point when the switch flips and I’m able to think about something analytically, but usually I can’t . Especially when I enjoy something.

Like Inception.

I’ve spent the entire last twenty-four hours completely swallowed up by the universe that Christopher Nolan built. A universe built in mazes, fabricated with the intent to meditate on ideas of ideas, guilt, consciousness, self-reflection, et cetera. Movies are special to me when they affect me. A universe also filled with gorgeous cinematography, white-knuckle action, and brief moments of humor. Every time I have to hear someone say, “Inception is a masterpiece” or “Inception isn’t a masterpiece”, I wonder quietly to myself what the fuck that means. I have absolutely no idea. But I do know Inception affected me.

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