Perhaps a year ago, I’d have watched this long, dreary, brutal (and every so often, brilliant) film early in the morning and have become absorbed by the self-serious spirituality. Taking these hefty themes in, and yet not having them melt my mental mettle, I knew my mind’s health had improved. Discourse of grating world-weariness without any earthly delight in the trees they plant not being organic metaphors for mortality, but quite beautiful in their own right. Serious people talk about serious things with no inkling of humility. Whilst watching Tarkovsky’s The Sacrifice, I knew I was better. “I feel more colourful every day – Bright Boy” My name is Aaron Farrell and I’m:īut I’m OK because I’ve climbed out of the well, clambered out of the valley, smiled at the sunset after too long a dark. Another seeming paradox against (instead of ‘because of’) the plutocracy, a Catch-44 if you will, is that it’s taken this soft apocalypse for me to mine a small fortune of mental wealth within the confines of societies and systems ridiculing the emergent conversation of deteriorating mental health. Though, this isn’t an article of bemoaning, but of celebrating. All culminating in the issue of my 29-year-long identity crisis as a weirdo working-class boy tussling (and often defeating) the mosaic man I’ve been able to piece together from myriad muses. Existential crises seem to bubble up weekly from my disdain with university and academia, living in Brexit Britain – which grows ever more fitting to the animalistic anthropomorphization of our mascot being a grumbling, growling, racist, repugnant little Bulldog with a Scrappy-Doo complex – and being a paradox in that I’m a decent white man in a world ruined by the White Man. And yet it’s been one of the most turbulent years in my life.
I’ve been taking antidepressants once a day since April 2019.
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