"There are many things that we would throw away if we were not afraid that others might pick them up."
-Oscar Wilde; The Picture of Dorian Gray
Sylvia Plath, from a journal entry featured in "The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath,"
Sometimes I look at my own photos and feel like a stranger.
Streetlamp light disturbs the midnight time
Distorted shadow, running along the asphalt
It might be mine
The heart is supposed to fall
In love,
And for someone
But mine is quiet,
Still at itβs place
It doesnβt beat in sync with someoneβs
But it beats for me
Iβm not giving it up
But wear it on my sleeve
And treat it gently
π mandatory happy ending π
I take a photo with the old camera out of my mumβs drawer
A quick shot of life
One short silent depiction of how I view the world
I like the old films
Colours not too bright
Iβm not good at photography either
Smudged pictures on 15mm
Too orange, too yellow, too bright
I like looking at people, like capturing how life is for them
I donβt like being near them
I like myself on black and white film
π¬πππππππΊπ π πΎπ πππππΎπ
[via]
βa way to let go of my thoughts because I fear they might crush meβ ||they/them||
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