Photograph

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Beyond the lines , that bar away, the confusing notions of thoughts so  grey, I see myself, standing still,  framed in a photograph, resting  on a windowsill . My eyes stand listless as  I  stare back from  a portrait painted only white and black. It is  a  single photo,  in contrasting spectrum of light,  that does not show who I am in any clear sight.  

 

 

My hair is black, my eye are browns, although I smile when that  cameras flashed ,  I  hid my  frown. For when I saw  that camera’s light  , I knew that moment would end on the night .  The visage of myself, I see in that wooden frame,  was  but only  a moment in my life  that day, a day that can never be reclaimed.  So now it  simply sits, and  gathered dust, reminding me, that life is so often rushed.  

 

 

In those photos  preserving  fleeting days , that I try to grasp unto, with weakening  strength,  I  now only see that  it   shows a  shallow portrait of me. The picture may show happiness, guilt, sorrow and pain, all etched by lines into that  image, on that fateful day, but   it cannot show how long those  feelings stay.

 

 

What that image cannot capture or bestow, are  the hours  that   are my nights, that  I spend restless  and alone. That  picture,  black and white,  will not allow for grey to emerge as   I think  of    death or life. So often that picture cannot  discern, whether or not I sane or  disturbed. It does show me  as I’ve have walked,  upon the cold streets, alone with my thoughts.

 

 

Would that black and white picture , with  added  colors and hues , be a superior medium to capture my displeasures  or the   times that I  have  mused? Could it capture  those sparse moments when I  have cried ,   to songs so sweet ,that I felt myself die inside?  I dare not say yes, in asking this question, for my  continence on  tomorrow’s  days, so often  washes away,  the  photos of  yesterday.

 

 

Though this photo  of me, may be black and white,  made up of   absolute wrongs or rights,  it does not confine me to see, the world in such narrow spectrums of reality. For beyond the rims of that visual cage, I  see  that  the world is  not made, of  such  dichotomous ways.   More often than not, when seeing photos of myself or of others lives, there are often more grey blurs, were there should be solid black and white lines.

 

 

So as this  photo sits  upon my sill, cracked and now aged,  with dust forming a film, I ponder back to that day and how I  felt  and it stares back at me on that shelf. Sorrow did grasp at my heart strings, as too did my mind as it raced, and reflected on past mistakes. Yet   instead of lamenting on lost time,  I  walked towards myself  and I stood there, frozen in time.  Static it was that  black and white variant of me, staring back, with eyes filled only with  apathy. So   I placed my former  face down, no longer to see, the person that I used to be.

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