Photographs

The thought of photographs and cameras made me feel very melancholy. I remember buying an extremely poor quality camera and then abandoning it only to have my parents take up on it. They made use of it enthusiastically, not minding that the camera was of a Christmas-cracker joke quality. They seemed truly derived joy in using it. There is something about the effect of documenting the present, the happiness of capturing the effervescent.

Thinking of fleeting moments make me think of the future. Will there be someone to remember me? As I remember my parents now, however narrowly? I am thirty one now and yet to have a family of my own. I feel... very alone, sometimes. There is few if anything, no photographs, to document the life I am living/have lived. My mind wanders widely. But how much can we say to have lived if we pass through the world silently, observing? And letting what we read and the ideas that we understand act as ciphers of our being?