She was right, the pictures I was taking lacked a distinction from what others saw. They showed that I knew nothing apart from what everyone else experienced. It was futile, trying to promote my individuality in the particular angles from which I stopped time. They were easy, simplistic. The images didn’t ask who I was, but what these things made me, as if I could piece together an identity by the sum of what happened around, outside of me. I was trying to involve myself in something that could only be exterior by nature.
I was trying to determine worth by any concrete manifestation of the idea. Again, it was all in vain, but I wanted to take these images of the ideal with me, holding onto all of it for a little while. But we all somehow fail in trying to match our dream of perfection to reality, and the pictures presented this inevitable failure. The pictures brought order to the absurd, trying to relieve the anxiety and tension the situation brought forth.
From behind the camera, I wondered if there could be movement. Did all of this really have to be static, or was there possibility for evolution, a potential hint at regeneration?
It was hard to imagine one could stop being curious.