It was hard to imagine one could stop being curious.
But she was right, the pictures I took lacked a distinction from what others saw. They showed that I knew nothing apart from what everyone experienced, confirming the absence of imagination and ingenuity I feared. It was futile, trying to promote my individuality in the particular angles from which I stopped time. These pictures were easy, simplistic. The images didn’t ask who I was; they dismissed me from the composition entirely. There was no context, no substance or framework to define me. They were forcing me to piece together an identity from the sum of what happened around me, outside of me. I was trying to involve myself in something that was exterior, in something that could never belong to me. In something I could never belong to.
I was trying to determine worth by any concrete manifestation of the idea. Again, it was all in vain, but I wanted to bring with me these images of the ideal. But the failure is always inevitable, trying to match our dream of perfection to reality.
The pictures brought order to the absurd, trying to relieve the anxiety and tension the situation brought forth. And 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?
The anxiety of the city resting dormant was just as daunting as the possibility of it remaining the same.