la douleur exquise

F A S T    8 . 17 . 18

A night or two like this and I could almost swear I’d be back on my feet, but the arches of my soles and back hurt and the skin of my hands is tattered. It’s been weird not sleeping again –that listless feeling of never really truly falling asleep and even the shorter days of summer feeling like the longest nights. Maybe just one more night like this and I’ll have it figured out. Maybe just one more night like this and I’ll repress it all enough that it wont matter anymore. I keep looking at my own photographs wondering why I took them. Why steal even a split second from someone else s life? Is it so wrong to be selfish in ways that don’t leave any impression. But then I look at our photographs –the open mouth smiles and closed eyes, the mid-sentence snaps, the stolen memories– and I know why I have to be selfish sometimes. I might leave this world with no trace in anyone’s mind or heart and I’m fine with that. But every soul I connect with I take piece so small they might never notice. Lately I’ve been taking pieces of you, simultaneously hoping you’ll notice and terrified you’ll find out. Everything could all go away so fast and I’ve come to terms with that. I know I could find joy for the rest of my life in the times we’ve shared and thank god my mom gave me her camera so I’ll always a fraction of a memory to remember this feeling.

–Forrest Lane