At the end of the movie In the Mood for Love, the man whispers his long repressed love into a hole in the wall. I found it funny and had serious queries about his sanity. But now that I’m on the other side of the fence, the scene kills me.
I doubt that the wall crevice could really contain a decade of repressed love; and the ennui, stifled hope, scattered memories, the quiet yearning of all those wasted years. But confession to an inanimate object spares one the indignity of indifference and heaps of hurt. And sometimes that is the only solace one ends up seeking.