truth and lives
I came across a box of old photographs in a flea market the other day and stopped, as usual, to sift through them. Finding a poignancy in each image - bare sketches of lives left lying unclaimed - I was most compelled by these two. With the photos tucked in my pocket, I walked around with scarcely half a mind on the push and noise of real life and the rest filling up with stories about that couple and the pair of girls.
I think about their stories. I think about my stories: those ones I tell myself about my self, my memories, my life. I look at these strangers in the photographs and myself in the glare of the screen; glaring slightly with concentration and seeming a stranger to myself. Sometimes I wonder if the reason I write is because making up stories about other people is frankly more straightforward than sorting out the truth of my own.
Reader Comments (4)
The woman in the first photo immediately caught my eye, because there's something about her. I can understand the lure to create narratives for such images.
Hila, I'm so glad you can see the something about the woman in the top photo. She mesmerised me from the depths of the box. Those eyes and that expression! The photo in the flesh is even more revealing. Several times a day, I stop to glance at her - wondering.