We grow up. So quickly and seamlessly, life passes before our eyes as a black and white photograph in some virtual form, too detailed, yet blurred and empty. That kind of photo we would always remember, keep, and remove dust from it. Alive and too important, worth everything and filled with everything that we are, all that we haven’t been, all that we wanted to become.
It includes all those people who have either been a lesson or a gift, all those dark nights and days filled with true happiness, years of experiences, success, failure, discovering ourselves at different times as different people, but essentially the same. That photo has stories, written on it, with irreversible words about everything we did to someone, to ourselves, to unknown people, what we represented to somebody, and what we didn’t. What we really don’t comprehend.
And they appear in a picture, somewhere between the fog and the light of the silhouette of our demons. There arise the laugh and eyes outlines, looking at us, deep and so real that our whole body trembles. Is that our look? The look of the child we have been, and we don’t nurture it anymore, realizing that we are aging? And regardless, we should keep this child in and stay young. Otherwise, the photo will capture us, we will be forgotten and covered with dust. We will become only a photograph. Nothing more.