trapped and beaten, we are left with only two choices: both opportunities—opportunity to live for the past or for the future. the choice rests upon the hands of no one but us, the subject of the matter—the lead of the story.

there are numerous options, two and few valid. the clock is ticking and no one bothers to ask why you can still hear the monotonous black and white picture of the scene—the lead sitting in front of his closed television while staring at the clock, beside him is the phone wanting patiently to be touched. this picture does not move nor changes its angle, an experimental film perhaps? no, this is real. the black and white picture, the man, the television casting the reflection of the man staring at the tickling clock, the monotonous sound of the clock, and the shadows every subject creates—dark and light shadows are all real. not a dream like most people tells, or writes, but a true story based from a true story.

he now thinks everyone is trapped in a box, beaten by culture, religion, and the different people—close and not-so-close making life so miserable. he now thinks differently after having his whole life trashed, well, because of him. It is his life, thus making him responsible for every decision he makes, making him the sole responsible being for all the terrible events that has happened to his life.

suddenly he stands up; he walks towards the bathroom and sits on the toilet. not like the normal books and movies, he does not let a tear fall. He closes his eyes and dreams the dreams he once dreamed.

the sky was pale blue and there were puffy clouds patched here and there. his body parallel with the green grassy ground, his arms at the back of his head, his feet crossed while singing his favorite song for her in his mind. her eyes was very sweet, around her are butterflies and hearts flying as if a fairy letting the air lift her body, her lips smile. her lips smile, really. suddenly, she appears beside him. she looks so much the same, yet different.

and suddenly, yes, very sudden, he snaps back to reality. the black and white chrome effect comes back, an italian song plays that he does not even understand but somehow suits what he was feeling at that very moment. the melody sinks. the credit follows, says the title was indifferente, or in english, unimportant. chill enters his body and salty tears came rushing. choice. his feeling was indifferente. he must go on, go on, go on--go on and leave the monotonous scene. suddenly, he knew what he wanted, just like what he knew.