The Market Beckons.
Come hither, it calls me.
People huddle. Buzzing like bees. A stampede of elephants. There’s barely room to get past. You have to squeeze yourself into their nooks and crevices. Mold yourself around arms and legs, legs and arms as if sculpted by the hands of god.
Any other day such a swarm would send me packing, but today I’m behind my camera, and our love affair is strong. Today these people are my shield, my cloak. I’m just another wave in the ocean. They crash into me, and I crash into them.
I’m invisible here. And being invisible means being free. It means I can stare, really stare. And how I yearn to stare at things to drink them fully.
It means I can sit on the hot pavement, only a few feet away from a man who squeezed my heart (slowly, with intention) the moment my eyes laid on his, and etch his thoughtful demeanor into this brilliant little machine. Oh how I loved him in this instant.
There are moments I get life. No bullshit, just pure getting it. And those moments fill me with such fullness it seems they’ll surely cause me to explode. Stripped down and barren in the face of such beauty, words are shallow and knees are weak; defenses are torn like paper. It’s just you and life. Awe-ful pleasure and sweet, tender pain.
This is why I take pictures. This is why I have an unquenchable thirst for these moments to live on. Connecting so deeply to one thing opens me to connect to everything, and I couldn’t keep it to myself. No. This I couldn’t fathom.