A/N: Helloo! I hope you enjoy this small piece of my work, it’s very close to my heart hahah. It’s inspired by this poem:
The room is dark, only a soft red light glows, its source unknown. I’m sitting in the middle of the room, an aura of absolute certainty around me. I know what’s coming. I know and yet I’m unable to get out of this vicious cycle. This vicious cycle that is eating me whole. A trap. This chair, this room, my mind, this job. I’m unable to let go; I’m unable to get out. I can feel them. They’re coming. Closer and closer. Their cries ring in my ears. Not again. No. Please. I can see them. Their bodies, the blood, the tremor in his hands and I-
I hate my job. I hate my job but if this were my last day on earth, I’d spend it doing the same thing I’ve been doing for 21 years. 21 years. I write this letter not to plead or to beg but to show. 21 years and there’s no getting used to this. Every day is new. Every day is harder. Every day reminds me of my beautiful family back home. Every day reminds me of their ignorance. Your ignorance. All the pictures seen, yet unseen. So easily disregarded. Ignored. Ignorance really is your bliss. But I guess, it’s mine too.
Beirut. 27th April 1991. I wake up to a hard, metal object in my hand. A gun. Adrenaline rushes through my veins as I get up at alarming speed. Sigh. It’s only my camera. What does this say about me? It’s all there, right in front of me. An arm’s distance between us. The blood, the bodies, the sheer evil. I see time as it slows down right in front of me. It’s urging me, nudging me, pushing me. Yet I stand. I watch. Motionless. My hands quiver as the Canon EOS 5D Mark IV slips. Crack. I hear that sound every day. I see the lens falling apart in front of me. It wasn’t alone.
Belfast. 30th February? 1993? I had lost count by then. But there I was with the new Canon. New Canon. Same people. Same lives. Same setting. New Canon. I squeezed my eyes shut. It was all the same. Double take. Nothing was the same. I open my eyes to new faces, new blood, new lives, new air, new nightmares. And I squeeze my eyes shut again, just like I do every day. I cannot see this. I cannot be idle any longer. So I look through the lens and convince myself that there is nothing more to this. It’s just a picture. Tomorrow this picture will be scrutinized from every angle possible to ascertain whether it can be printed alongside the day’s headlines. Is it too sad? Is it too gruesome? Will people feel a connection? Oh but wait a minute, that guy lying on the ground has too much blood on him. Gross.
I have this theory where I feel so much that I can’t feel anything. It’s a bit like when something is so hot, that human nerves cannot recognize its strength. They think it’s cold. That’s called an illusion. That’s called life. My life. Years later, and I am a shadow, drifting with no end in sight. A part of everyone and everything. I am the last piece of a jigsaw puzzle. I complete it. But on my own, I am nothing. So I drift and wander and I drift and wander and drift and wander and drift until-
This is my life.