Maybe pictures coalesce into existence when maniacal photons travel around in undefined directions at blistering speeds till they collide haphazardly onto a light-sensitive surface, collapsing abruptly into their graves. Kind of like an suspecting insect flying straight into a spider wed. Except, I wonder, if photons were ever alive?
Pictures are beguiling. Pictures are probably best described as failed attempts at preserving moments we want to cherish. But it only manages to capture the visual elements, and fails to catch its grip on other elements such as emotions, sounds, smells, taste and touch. Like clasping your fingers over a handful of sand, only to watch the grains slip away with nonchalant ease, only to leave remnants, fragments, parts of what was once a whole piece. Or like trying to capture a waft of smell, by freezing and storing it in a glass vault.
What I find even more enigmatic is, however, the very act of taking a photo.
Because, shouldn’t the invaluable moments, the ones we tenderly lock away in a safe hidden in the deepest places, be remembered with our hearts, and not our eyes?