Photographs capture slivers of existence.
Photographs are comfort--windows through the light of the present to reach buried, lost times.
But photos have a dark side. An uncomfortable mirror.
The moment, once captured, instantly dies.
So real in the frame, it exists nowhere else.
Places change. People age and die. But the photo remains.
Preservation against torment.
Nostalgia against melancholy.
Do we treasure the phantom moment, or mourn the real one's loss?
Someone else is in the pictures of me. But I still know him well.
The rivers of meaning reverse with the tides of time.
I look back with nostalgia. Someday it may be melancholy.
(Inspired by the walls of a local restaurant covered with pictures of people from the 30's, 40's, and 50's. It struck me that even if any of those people are alive today, they are not the people in those photos. Maybe it was the weight of them all, but for the first time, I felt the counterbalance of a darker side.)