Just a Picture

„It’s just a picture.“

Still, all I manage to take is yet another photograph of a hand. Blurry. The hurried movement created strange patterns, a swirl of light that was reflected off a ring on a finger. It’s nice, has a bit of an artsy feeling to it. Maybe I could do an art show one day? Hundreds of photographs of hands in various states of blurriness. It’d probably be a huge hit. A small chuckle escapes my lips as I think about it. Fancy art gallery, posh outfits, expensive champagne, people philosophizing about the deeper meaning behind each picture.

Who decides whether there is a deeper meaning behind that out of focus hand? For me it’s just yet another picture of something that wasn’t the intended subject. An annoyance. Frustration. But an unsuspecting art gallery visitor might find some sort of enlightenment there. The meaning of life, the answers to our generation’s most profound questions, hidden in an obscure blur…

Snapping out of my famous photographer day dream I notice two amused eyes looking right at me, head tilted to the side a little.

“Where did you just run off to in your head?”

Another chuckle, a slightly embarrassed twitch of the corner of my mouth. I hate when my brain takes off like that; it can last forever. It leaves me standing around, completely still and incredibly silly, like the big dufus that I am. Probably with a half mad grin on my face as well. Yeah, not a fan. Happens all the time unfortunately.

“Nowhere.” There’s probably some blush creeping up my cheeks to help make that sound even more unconvincing.

“You sure? ‘Cause you looked like you just went on a mental Blond Ambition tour or something.” A raised eyebrow now completes the tilted head situation.

Thank you for providing me with that lovely image. Just what I needed. I can’t stop my eyes in time to prevent them from doing an annoyed roll.

“Can I please just take a picture of you? Can’t even see your face underneath that oversized cap anyway. What’s the big deal?”

“You know I hate having my picture taken.”

“But you look gorgeous. Besides, I would only be taking a picture of that lovely plaid outfit of yours. No face, I promise.”

“Then what’s the point?”

“Some things just exist in their glorious pointlessness. And they are still valid. They still have their rightful place in our world.” I offer my most charming smile but I can see that this is not helping much. At all. Still. “And there is a point to this. It’s proof. It’s a reminder. It’s a memory. Isn’t that what photographs are? Not the showy ones that just peacock around, trying to impress people with the phenomenal artistry of the photographer. I mean the every day pictures. The mundane photographs. The ones capturing a moment. A feeling. Or even just an outfit. When you stumble across them years later they take you back. Make you smile. Or possibly roll your eyes. This particular, as of yet hypothetical, picture would remind me of you. Here in my apartment. On this lovely summer day. Dressed like it’s deep, dark winter. It would probably make me smile and roll my eyes simultaneously.”

“Says the one who loves impressing people with their peacocky photographs.”

“Yeah. I think you may have missed the point there a little but okay.”

I only get a mischievous grin for a reply. It wasn’t going to work anyway but I couldn’t help it.

“I’m running late, gotta go. See you later.”

With a small kiss on my cheek and a wave of a hand – that damn hand – I’m left alone to my musings.

My pictures really aren’t that peacocky. Or are they? Well, maybe. Some of them. A little. Anyway…

Why do I keep pushing like this? We keep having the same discussion over and over. Neither one of us wanting to give in. It’s really not my place to be this pushy. This is not a question of AITAH – I definitely am. But it comes down to I just want you to see what I see. What I see is an amazing human being. Beautiful. Intelligent. Funny. Caring. Ever the pessimistic optimist. A force of nature hidden deep within. Buried beneath a choking heap of insecurities. Hiding underneath a never-ending supply of plaid. Hiding behind a too large baseball cap. Hiding behind a hand. Is it so wrong of me for wanting you to see all that? Don’t think it is. Does it have to be a photograph? I guess not. Not even sure it would make much of a difference. But words don’t seem to be enough either. They are not my strong-suit anyway. And I do fancy myself a photographer. Though not much of one apparently. Can’t even take a picture of my favorite motif.

I take another look at the newest blurred hand photograph. I zoom in a little. If you know what to look for you can see the scars on the arm. Some faded, some not quite yet. My heart beats a little faster. As if it’s trying to fight off the feeling of complete helplessness. Of utter uselessness. Of crippling inaptitude.

Or maybe it’s just trying to prevent itself from breaking. It’s not working. You cannot run from this, strange little heart.

My finger gently strokes across the image of the carefully edged in lines. Not too deep. Just enough to distract from the pain. Fighting pain with a different kind of pain. A more controllable one, I guess. A teardrop falls onto the screen of the camera, making it even harder to see the hidden shapes of you.

I zoom out again. Back to the blurry hand that hides the beautiful mess behind it. Back to the swirl of light that distracts from everything else. It really does look like a piece of art. Abstract. Obscure. Confusing. There is no enlightenment for me here. No hidden meaning of life. No answers.

It’s just a picture.