poetic rants.

Her camera shoots a thousand victims, capturing them, imprisoning them in a memory card thatll never again see the light of day. Shell stash them away, where theyll stay because no one will want to waste their time watching slideshows of the slow progression of twenty thousand frames. And its a shame because all this time she spends is in vain, all the painful waiting as shr takes her pictures taking her time. Amd its a crime to complain or to blame her for our pain because her wrath is worse than the acursed sound her shutter makes.


Despite your 'mindfulness' classes you cant be mindful of us as we stand in the italian afternoon sun, waiting for you as you lag behind. Dragging your fert as you hold your camera to your face in a constant vigil bexause youre terrified of an opportunity for photography to pass you by. You ignore our sighs and complaints, for they taint your perfect mood, and our moods mean nothing at all. You fall behind all the time, because your pictures are worth more than our feelings. And im left reeling in this conclusion, filled with confusion why yourr being so frigid, why your will is so rigid and theres no room for compromise. Cant you see it in oyr eyes tjat you upset us so? No. Because your eye is firmly set in your view finder, finding no solutions.