Every photo has a story:
Maybe, just maybe.
True self-understanding is justifiably nonexistent.
More counterfeit perception, less material knowledge.
More subjective science, less objective art.
Unlike them, we’ve never met ourselves.
Photographic renditions of past provide the static portrayal of a body and a spirit that is as desired as it is undesired.
The present is impossible to live.
Consciousness is only an 800-pound gorilla.
Or an iceberg. Or the secret.
Or nothing with everything.
But it doesn’t exploit the self.
Allowing for a marginal state of awake.
A frail position for natural learning.
The conditions for opportunistic evolution.
Creating that figment of self.
That falsified avatar reality stimulated by the precarious combination of internal and external expectation.
A faux, inorganic ego.
And I can’t imagine my aged self.
And I’m not sure about time.
Notwithstanding forcefully believing in the enduring darkness of hair.
The flawlessly calculated elasticity of skin.
The rigidity of bones.
The functionality of each organ.
The synchronicity of heart.
The value of blood.
But also the clarity of a life concept.
The appeal of energy.
The animation of ideas.
The sense of words.
The unexpectedly fleeting ways of nihility.
The plausible deniability of futility.
And the infinity of chance.