As part of an assignment I was working on for class this week I needed to take a photograph that commented on my relationship with time.
I thought about how much I dislike the sound of a ticking clock. I hate it, actually. It causes me great unrest. I don't want to be reminded each second that another has just passed.
And so, I decided on this.
A self-portrait.
I'm not conscious of it most often, but those small hands have a mighty hold on me. They make an awful racket in my head, telling me there will never be enough time.
And "time for what?", I wonder.
Time for doing
and loving
and seeing
and tasting
and reading
and talking
and learning
and laughing
and walking
and feeling
and ... whatever other wondrous things this life offers us.
But none of these joys are held by time.
And I'd like to shake its hold on me as well.
I thought about how much I dislike the sound of a ticking clock. I hate it, actually. It causes me great unrest. I don't want to be reminded each second that another has just passed.
And so, I decided on this.
A self-portrait.
I'm not conscious of it most often, but those small hands have a mighty hold on me. They make an awful racket in my head, telling me there will never be enough time.
And "time for what?", I wonder.
Time for doing
and loving
and seeing
and tasting
and reading
and talking
and learning
and laughing
and walking
and feeling
and ... whatever other wondrous things this life offers us.
But none of these joys are held by time.
And I'd like to shake its hold on me as well.