Life as a Photograph

Life is not real today, for it is a picture. It was another still; it will be another soon enough, with me a passive observer to the succession of images. My assertions amount to just enough to turn the pages, present the next tableau.

Here a row of buildings play at perspective and draw my eye with their collective curve to a tower in a pale sky. There an inlet gravel sea laps at a sidewalk shore. Everywhere the light is too harsh, the focus unnervingly clear.

I do not wish to see these photographs.

The lens is wrong. Too many photographers scrabble and scrape to craft the scene. Figures appear, flat representations of souls, out of place, pasted in with little regard for reason or feeling. I should very much like to not be so placed, yet I cannot argue the artistic merit nor fault the composition.

The only course is through, a wandering pace from slide to slide until the shutter stills, until the welcome cool of black fills the frame.

Life is not real today, nor do I wish it to be.

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