I’ve only had my camera for about two weeks now, but I have a confession.
I feel vulnerable when I don’t have it with me.
They say a photo is worth 1,000 words. I wonder how many words of good prose one is worth, or poetry, or good poetry. Still, I digress.
I question if this is normal. I’m not a photographer at heart, by any stretch of the imagination, yet since I’ve gotten it I’ve felt so much more able to capture those split second things for eternity that only I could see. The way the guys at the top of the tower lower a new segment of wall from a crane six floors up on top of a building being constructed, or the way the sun hits Bosco Student Plaza at sunrise when it’s filled with students rushing off to class, progressing toward the next phase of their lives vigorously.
I can capture all of these things, like fireflies in a jar or laughter by a cute girl that flows in to my voice recorder as ambient noise while interviewing a random stranger nearby.
Maybe there’s more to it. Maybe writing, by nature of being aural in nature of its expression, is one form of beauty that I love but that also causes me to have profound admiration for the other: beauty’s purely visual side.
For now though, I’ll save that existential question for later. All I know, at this very moment, is that I miss my camera, and it isn’t even very far away.