I used to lay in bed composing poetry. Always thinking, I should write this down, I'll write it down in the morning. Sometimes I did. The lights off. The world seemingly still and me laying in bed putting words together in my mind.
Maybe it was a way for me to try make sense of life, love... everything. It was a way I could connect the little things, that were always big things to me. The slow motion way I saw the world. The way the light moved across the room as the sun rose and set. The way dust settled on things untouched, unused. The way my imagination sparkled as the rain danced off the rooftop, spilling down from the gutter outside my bedroom window. It might explain why I was the girl who dramatically hid up in the branches of my grandparents plum tree, and why I might sit on the window edge in my room daydreaming about love and heartache at the age of 10. I was always full of of thoughts and words.
It may have started with words and somehow ended up in photographs. Holding life still. Being able to savor little delicate pieces of life that might otherwise be missed. Like, the beauty in a pair of butterflies dancing around her, while she is unaware. The look in someone's eye when they think no one is watching, a gaze across a crowded room, a glance at something beautiful, someone beautiful. The way life is either a whirlwind or a slow motion segment in a movie. The way a photograph can hold you captive. Draw you in. Make you feel something.
A photograph can be full of a silent stories. Like all of those stories I compiled in my head for so many years. Silently, within the walls of my imagination. I feel like I am pouring out the stories, the thoughts, those feelings into images. One story, one image at a time. Or at least, that's how I sometimes see it.