10-3-24

And then, poof, they were gone. There were artifacts that would slowly disappear too. The ash of the fire pits would wash away, the murals that had been painted on the wall in the background have already been painted over. It may be like it never happened.

I contemplated once that I might be a creative writer, that my stories would have some slim entertainment value to a select few and that particular small audience might have been all that mattered. One of the stories I contemplated was about a man who took photographs of things that disappeared, or rather, the things he took photographs of disappeared. It wasn't intentional, and over time he realized it happened quite frequently and he actually became somewhat afraid to take photographs any more. He had to fight with the sense of satisfaction taking a good photograph afforded him and the idea that he might be responsible for the demise of the very beautiful things he chose to take pictures of. He became particularly afraid of taking photographs of people but there were moments when smiles were utterly irresistible and he would cross his fingers, his pinky and his ring finger, as he took the photograph in hopes of protecting his subject, like he didn't really mean it as he released the shutter, like it didn't count because of the crossed fingers.

Maybe I'll write that story one day. Maybe I already have.