(Thank you, Kapil for the image.)
I pulled out my camera today. I hate to give it a personality, and I haven’t named it. It is a tool. Metal, plastic, and glass. Yet my attachment to it, my relationship is somewhat dysfunctional.
Sometimes I feel as if it is a toddler that can’t get enough attention. There is great guilt when I ignore it. Most times, my camera is an all-too-real projection of who I am. Slow. Cumbersome. It only works one way. Film doesn’t turn out well unless I am the one to process it. (Yes I see it too, Control Freak!) There is no room for anyone else. Two people cannot look through the viewfinder.
Again and again I stand in front of it. Whisper my story into its eye. If anyone else sees, the truth will hide, awkward light will mar the subtle gestures. For in its creation, during those precious private moments, the real story is shy and malleable. Outsiders can change it all with the slightest touch leaving their fingerprint in the shadows. I can’t even speak my own truth if I am watching. It sneaks out, slides into the silver, only to stand tall when there is no chance left to alter the alignment of metals.