I like dark things. I don’t know when this began, but as long as I can remember, this is how I have been. Attracted to the shadows, if you will. As lame as that sounds, this does not mean I ever wore guyliner or dyed my hair black and let it hang in my eyes, but if you read through a good deal of the writing from my youth, you would find some very twisted concepts coming out of my young mind. When fear is fake, as in “you feel fear but there is no actual threat of danger”, I revel in it. I like the way it makes my heart hammer. I like the way it twists my perception of things. I like the way fear takes rational thought and crushes it in its fist, causing us to think from the parts of our minds we don’t often regress to. And what better way to feel this fear than to embrace it through the medium of film. Understand, I am not talking solely of horror films. The scariest films often are not horror at all, but tend to be dramas built around human suffering. A few weeks ago I decided I had missed that feeling. That suffocating fear I feel when watching movies that make me squirm with discomfort. So I decided to sit down with some films I had been holding out on, and watch five rather bleak films, five days in a row, back to back. Did it take a toll on my mental state? Ofcourse it did, the most powerful art often does. But the first thing you feel when you see films like this, if you are rational, is grateful. Grateful that none of it is happening to you. Some people walk away from these films more screwed up. I walk away with an odd sense of peace that I witnessed the suffering, but was not forced to feel it, first hand. A concept I have touched upon before, and intend to again with this article. Be forewarned, though, shit gets mighty fucked up.