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.