Yesterday I dared. I stole my Saturday morning back from the slavering jaws of Revision and the murderous claws of Essay-writing and I went to the movies to see Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close. My sudden burst of determination, desperation, and deliberation put my tears on a hair trigger. I knew it was dark in the theatre, I knew the movie was going to be sad, and I knew that I was alone. So I cried and cried and cried.
Maybe it was because I'd read the book. Maybe it was because I knew the hurts and pain and grief that Oskar felt because I had been there with him through the pages of Jonathan's beautiful, beautiful book. I was hurt all over again, and I sobbed for him. It was horribly sad, but how good it was to cry and feel slightly better, save for the pounding of the pulse in my hot temples.
It was very good, which was better than I had hoped. Some things I thought would get lost in film, but they managed to find ways to save some little things. I thank them for it.
When the movie was over, everyone seemed to be in a rush to get out, but I sat behind after everyone was gone and felt so surprised to have such a huge public place all to myself. And the aloneness, not the lonliness, gave me the oppertunity to empty out my last tears in the dark and gather my tattered feelings.