COULD YOU TAKE MY PICTURE ?

I have yet to decide if I quite like looking at photographs taken. But this is the way I am—constantly undecided. Sure, when I look at old pictures, I am immediately reminded of a moment in time, I am brought back to another realm—where we put our picture-faces on, ready for the camera—yeah, and the other “unglamourous” pictures that make you want to squirm into your skin and hide out for a bit. Why are people so concerned anyway, it’s not like we could ever look picture-perfect every second of our life. Why be picture perfect any way?— I am nostalgic, and melancholic.
But whichever the reaction to photos, it doesn’t matter.

Maybe we are constantly taking pictures because we are afraid, and we know the fleeting nature of our adventures. In my head I am worried that I may never, ever see this ever again, that I may never see your face again, and so I take a picture—not that I have not already been taking mental pictures of you, hoping I may never forget the beauty of your face, the idiosyncratic changes in your every expression. In my mind I am thinking should this pass, will I remember—I don’t want to forget, damn this barely used brain of mine, if you could just remember, more—I am having an internal struggle with the workings of my inner self, and before I know it, the moment is gone, as were you, a passing glance, a moment in time. In actual practice, and in actual fact, maybe I am afraid to look at all these pictures, not that I am half expecting an unidentified flying object to appear in any of them, but I am afraid. I am afraid of all the things that have changed since I last took the pictures—all that has been, are all that has been. If you get what I mean, at all.

It’s like buying an insurance—I take a picture of you—just like that way I buy a life insurance for myself. Sure, it’s an investment: should I die, I would have something to my name, at least, for whoever. But do I really want to die. I take a picture because I want to remember this when the moment is gone, but do I really want this moment gone? So soon? (Bad example? Maybe.)

But where was I. Yes, pictures and the likes. Notice how we take more photos when we are on holiday. Strange, isn’t it. As if life ain’t worthy of some kind of remembrance. I guess we take our daily lives for granted. Why rush into things when we have any other day to do so? Makes one wonder why we live only when we realise our time is running out.

Typical, typical.
At the end of the day, maybe we are all just left with a bunch of photographs.

/thatsblasphemy.tumblr.com