Criticism, an opinion, is inevitable, forever. The peculiarities of instance demand a reaction.
Upon buying a ticket, the door is shut in my face.
I appear only to ask when I am able to return, and yet I am crudely asked to desist from my pestering ways and remove myself.
I feel my rationale breaking down, anger as enzyme.
I bought the ticket at cost.
To confer upon a person the singularity of judgement is not to be heralded as shameful. I dislike this man, for the moment. And it must be for the moment. He is a man I know and like and it is clear that he has simply not recognised me. I am not a violent person, so I shall take my dislike and walk away.
Not without getting my money back, naturally.
The articulation of dissatisfaction must, within this instance, be taken up with the box-office vendor. During the act of criticism, in relaying a series of events that may or may not be true but are without doubt mine, I am also careful to allow the possibility for error.
To look at the process, as it processes.
I have my money back. But rather than reject my ill-feeling, I now hate the man. A simple dislike has blossomed into a healthy hatred. It is wonderful to confound one’s expectations, especially when the occurance is without precedent or reason.
But of course, we only change an opinion in order to display the ability to change an opinion. The opinion itself is not the thing. It is the draw and sway of the current that pulls our mind, and our ability to fill each vessel, be it hate, love or an active displeasure, is the magnified virtue. One only enters into the world of criticism and validation in order to lose one’s way, to confirm that without reaction, the substance of reaction is invisible and an existence that is self-reliant is no existence at all.
Besides, the film was apparently not worth seeing.