Seeking the Simurgh in a Flooded World: A Sufi Reading of Flow
There’s a cat. There’s no dialogue. There are no humans. That’s how Flow begins; quietly, like a breath held underwater. A world submerged, not just in water, but in silence, memory, and what’s left when the Anthropocene folds in on itself. The cat doesn’t meow for help. It doesn’t explain. It moves: hesitant, curious, sometimes afraid. We follow. And perhaps, like me, you start seeing yourself in the cat. Not in some mystical reincarnation way, but in the way it stares at a collapsing world and keeps moving forward. Alone. Until it isn’t. Flight Time, Liminal Time It’s not the first time a film has gripped me midair. Something about that altitude - between departure and arrival, held in suspension - tunes the soul to a different frequency. Last time, it was Mother, Couch and Lost Lake Confessions during a layover that stirred meditations on mortality and the tragic absurdity of family (as I wrote in “ Under the Weight of Absurdity ” ). This time, it was Flow: silent, surreal...