Looking at certain pictures tonight, gave me perspective. What is a picture anyway? A moment captured, that changes meaning so quickly.
Long ago I read that the Masai tribe in Africa will seldom allow pictures to be taken of them, because they feel that it takes a part of their soul with them. What superstitious claptrap. Nonsense, no?
I thought this, but looking back, at my own images, I am beginning to see that there is some sense in that belief.
It can bring joy, and a laugh, but often, images of times past do nothing but create a hollow sensation inside you. A sense that something you did may have occured, but it may as well have been a product of a hollywood studio, unreal and unlivable. Your life takes on the aspect of a well designed prop set, and it becomes harder and harder to even understand who you were then, and what you were doing, and especially, what you were thinking.
I look back and see an alien. Someone who may have been me, but it does not feel like it was me. It is a body in those photos, that must be mine, but time makes me something else, so that looking what was captured begins to feel fabricated, and false, and then you know it was you, but you lost what that was, for better or worse. And then you understand, a part of you, was taken.
A large part of me was taken, and I want it back.
My soul was stolen. I was a good person, and I should have stayed that way. I should not have allowed bitterness and resentment to make me into a hateful creature. I know who I am and why I did what I did, and it makes me sad. I reacted, without thinking much, and if I would have stopped to think, I would not have done so many good things, and in turn, I would not have done any bad things either.
So when I look at me, I know, my soul was stolen, in little pieces, and then as a whole, when I said I do.
I should have never given that away. It was more precious than I ever knew. I can only hope that I can be forgiven for squandering what is more important than anything else. That purity that I let become rotten.
So I purge it out, and pray to be clean again. I am someones hope, and someones dream, and I am a life that someone sees as worth living.
And it hurts so bad to know that I made two such precious things with a human who took that in and created such amazing lives, and that my efforts were not worthwhile.
And I can only hope that I am strong enough to fight through this, and prove myself to be worthwhile. So try, and try again, and try harder. I can do anything, it is only my fear that holds my ambition captive.
I can be so good.
And I want to be.