I Want to be Someone Who Takes Pictures Again

Yellow hair.

Lucky clovers.

The lapping sea.

Nervous smiles.

All these things I used to capture in the clutches of a camera. One quick flick and I could freeze a moment in time and hang it upon my wall as a reminder that not all spoils of war are severed heads.

It takes but a moment to snap a picture. Sometimes, I suppose, even a shredded second can be difficult to sculpt out of an exhausting day. After hours of tireless effort and hard work, after being broken and beaten and bruised week after week, the pain can begin to build up. It'll wraps its smokey arms around you like the choking exhaust of a truck trailer, telling you to close your eyes and drift peacefully off to a meaningless, dreary existence. Flutter awake and you're met with unanswered questions, empty promises, and metaphysical confusion. It might feel better to stay asleep.

The one flaw in this system is this:

No one can photograph with their eyes closed.

Sure, you could probably blindly maneuver around your camera, locate the shutter button, and squeeze it to take a picture, but what would you be photographing? You can't see, so anything could be printed on that film.

Perhaps it's a miraculous waterfall gushing water over a lake of lily pads and tadpoles.

Maybe it's a photo of your best friend on their wedding day, dressed in smily white.

It could just be a blurry image of your own feet, but it's not like you would ever know; you can't bear to blink your eyes open.

You're too afraid of the photograph.

What if it scares me?

What if it's just inky blackness waiting to consume me, to tear me limb from limb?

What if--

Could be. But don't you feel the urge to take the smallest peek?

And besides. What if it's beautiful?

I used to take picture all the time, of my family, friends, pets, hobbies--anything that brought me joy. Everywhere I went, I'd take my phone with me so I could steal those happy moments from time.

Soon, though, I grew tired. Burnt out. I went through the motions, existing but not living, holding a camera but never having the guts to examine the picture in its frame with my own two eyes. I stopped taking pictures.

I want to be someone who takes pictures again.

I believe everyone has the right and the responsibility of being the photographer of their own lives, of recording their story in a physical format that future generations can run their fingers over and feel the age of. We all deserve and, frankly, need a manifest of our memories for when we forget the importance of life. When things seem down in the dumps, we can flip through the scrapbook of our lives and remember.

Please.

Never stop taking pictures. Never stop being alive.