The director, the actor and the magic cameras.
Pedro stood firmly in front of that one in the mirror and said:
You just told me who the fuck you are! The one in the mirror laughed heartily and put his hand on his chin in a mocking pose. — I am You, he said.
Then it occurred to him to do the experiment, or the game of the silent witness that he had read somewhere and had been running around in his head for days.
— For a week I'm going to watch what happens, he said.
When the alarm went off to wake up at six the next morning, he felt annoyed and thought he hadn't gotten enough sleep, he had the intention of slapping his cell phone and continuing to sleep, and then he remembered the game.
I want a close-up of the emotion chamber. And he saw immediately that there was annoyance in him, a bit of guilt for staying to watch last night's movie, with the fuss and violence of one of those police stories that teach nothing new. He kept moving the camera closer and could also see growing concern over his conversation with Alina last week, and fear that the couple's health was failing.
When he got to work he had a discussion with his boss because it turns out that this capricious and perfectionist wants everything without a blemish, everything as close to perfect as possible and as we will know, perfection is not achievable on this plane, and that word paralyzed him and put him in the game:
I want a close-up of the camera with the expression on my face during the conversation with the boss.
First, a bit of shame appeared at the certainty of not having had the necessary concentration during the preparation of the project presented, a doing without putting the senses in that doing. Something like doing on automatic pilot, while thinking in parallel, about the bad road that his relationship with his wife was taking and the fear and helplessness of losing her and the catastrophic consequences for his life.
And he went out for a coffee that would serve as an excuse to meditate. Then he stared at the smoke that came out of the cup making filigrees and the questions were arising out of nowhere, like the aroma of coffee and the columns of smoke.
Who is it that thinks and feels? Who is it that gets excited and suffers? Who is the camera, and who is the director who orders the shooting?
