Recently, on a whim, I picked up the classic film Once Upon a Time in America.

At first, the persistent ringing of the telephone was unnerving, so maddening that I wanted to crawl into the screen just to pick it up myself. Because of that relentless noise, my first impression was anything but pleasant.

The opening montage felt like a chaotic blur of time, place, and identity. For someone with prosopagnosia (face blindness) like me, it was hostile. Scenes jumped across decades without warning; the spatiotemporal logic was a mess. I watched it distractedly, glancing at the screen between chores. Yet, strangely, the film began to pull me in.

Possessed by some sudden urge, I watched it again. This time, with absolute focus.

Suddenly, the entire film transformed. Not a single frame was wasted. The "chaotic" shifts in time began to reveal invisible threads. Details surfaced one by one, and those blurred fragments rapidly aligned in my mind.

Those layers of time had always been there; I simply hadn't seen them the first time. They suddenly collapsed onto a single plane. I could see exactly where we were in the narrative, and how this moment echoed that one.

This is the enchantment of cinema. It grants us a quasi-divine perspective, laying out the three-dimensional tapestry of time and life with startling clarity. We teleport through eras, yet everything remains in perfect order.

I realized then: evaluating a film or a life requires patience. Wait a moment. Don’t rush to a conclusion when the noise is at its loudest.

It’s the same with being human. When clues are tangled and the path is obscured, it’s often not a lack of intelligence, but a surplus of haste. Instead of rushing to define ourselves, why not wait a little longer?

Often, what allows us to see through to the essence isn't our power of analysis, but our willingness to look with focused patience.



—— XC Scribbles · 壹佰肆拾壹 CXLI 🎞️