June. Bland. Both contain the letter “n.” Coincidence? Not for the purposes of this article.

June was just like Bastian’s bread-and-butter breakfast.

I realize I was spitting a bit of vitriol in my May results, but I’ve moved on from depression and accepted my place as a Cinemanaut for six more months. Elisabeth Kubler-Ross would be proud that I have completed my grieving. And I may still mourn the loss of free time and typical movie-watching habits, but at least I can move forward with the rest of my viewings.

June was a month to just accept the inevitable and watch my damn movie. Acceptance doesn’t breed happiness, though. The NeverEnding Story was less of burden and more of a chore, like doing dishes. I had to watch it, it’s not my favorite thing to watch, but it needs to get watched. I wasn’t elated to watch Artax die again, but I wasn’t despondent when Bastian yelled “Moon Child” either. Each viewing left a distinct taste of “meh” in my mouth.

I did try to jump-start some interest by finishing Grimm’s Fairy Tales. While I devoured the stories with great ease and did note some parallel themes and characters, The NeverEnding Story remained uninteresting. I hoped that my love of mythology and archetypes would feed into the fairy tales, thus reigniting my interest in my film. Sadly, no amount of talking animals and brutal deaths seemed sufficient to do so. Perhaps July will be a month of motivating viewing.

“That little girl burning a witch alive is just like… nope, don’t care.”

I continue to have a mental block when it comes to dreams or quotes. Anything to do with The NeverEnding Story is strictly boxed up in my brain. Relevant thoughts occur only during viewings, writing, or Cinemanaut discussions. The NeverEnding Story is banned from all other aspects of my life. My brain is helpful like that.

My pinky is less helpful.

People might think that I should be looking at the bright side of June: the year is half over. Surely it’s only downhill from here. Wrong. Just wrong. That’s like telling a marathon runner the last 13.1 miles are the easiest. Fuck that. Yes, the hatred and depression are gone, but it’s going to be slog through the rest of the year with brief moments of adrenaline-induced creativity and appreciation. Here’s to another six months.

I’m not sure which runner I’ll be in December.