There is this moment where you reflexively reach for the camera. But something stops you--a heaviness in the chest, a tightening at the back of the throat, a tickle behind the eye--and you realise that any picture resulting from this moment could not hope to capture the elusive quality that makes it so... unique. A pixelated representation would only detract from the originality; would dull the memory that you would be seeking to remember.
So you breathe deeply, each breath deeper then the last, thinking that somehow if you only breathe deeply enough you might breathe in the moment--the view, the taste, the smell, the perfection that lives only in that moment.
And then, as quickly as it dawned upon you, it leaves you. The light leaves, the smells mute, you are pulled back to a reality where the sweatshirt on your back leaves you just a tad bit too warm.
And you can never go back.
No medium could ever capture what it was, so you are left with regret. And a calming bath of contentment comes from knowing that if you had tried to duplicate it you would have ruined it completely.
No comments:
Post a Comment