***

This morning I was pacing in my room and feeling utterly miserable and depressed. I should ensure that I never become so sleep-deprived again. But sometimes, the external pressures of the world inflict their own prerogatives on the psyche.

I used to dream; full, lush, dreams in bright vivid colour. In the last few weeks, my dreams are frantic medleys of activity, hardly restful at all. I sleep sporadically, waking up every hour or so, hardly feeling rested, but far too awake to return to deep slumber.

***

I disliked the last 15 minutes of Sylvia immensely. And I was shifting in my seat from boredom throughout the film. The directing and pacing of the film was trite and the plotting hardly involving at all. It felt like a ghost of a real film, hardly substantial. An apt description, considering its subject matter.

I will never watch a biopic again, especially if I have garnered a tremendous amount of background knowledge on the protagonist/s of the film. In spite of the authority of artistic license, such dissatisfaction happens because the mind is inflexible in its perception. And the more ingrained a view is to the spectator, the more likely the film will lose the potency of its interpretation.

I do not feel the same sense of debasement when I watch a movie based on a book. More often than not, I enjoy both the original novel and the subsequent movie. After all, it is accepted that both are different mediums delineating a different artistic vision. Although sometimes I will pick one medium to indulge in, rejecting the existence of the other.