I stood before The Return of the Prodigal Son . Rembrandt’s light didn’t illuminate; it forgave. It gathered the lost and the weary and laid them gently at the father’s feet. The son’s head pressed into that robe as if pressing into time itself, his body collapsing under the weight of distance and the miracle of being seen. One slipper missing, one hand open in surrender. The father’s hands resting on his back, one firm, one trembling, were less of a touch, more of an underst

What are we really speaking of when we speak of writing? It is not merely words reflected and made tangible on paper, but the quiet...

I cannot call Cinema Paradiso merely a film, because it is so much more than that. It is the re-living of a profoundly collective human...

هل تفشل اللغة في إعادة خلق المشاعر؟ هل هناك مدى شعوري لا تبلغه الكلمات، ولا حتى تلامسه بخجل؟ هل هناك وجعٌ لا تسعه اللغة، ولا تحتمله...

Some films are delivered like a sermon, and others come like the wind that rearranges the furniture in your soul. The Day I Became a...

The fear of not knowing, of stepping barefoot into the soil that has no name, sits with me like a second skin. The fear of what is not...

I studied false memory, and at first, it felt purely clinical, just another demonstration of the mind’s profound and exquisite fragility....

Marc Chagall – Lovers Above the City  (1913–1914) A love like this will not last forever. But perhaps some moments are so full, so...

In Search of the Miraculous | Bas Jan Ader, 1975. I think I’m metaphysically burning. It begins somewhere deep inside me—an ache nested...

Yearning is: a tender or urgent longing. It was a summer, a long-lost summer where everyone was present, everyone gathered around the...