Our Recorded Moments

Fractions, perspectives.

Selective refractions.

Photos.

Graphs that expose stories.

My stories.

They record the forbidden, the uninhibited, the authentic, the contrived.

Scenes, parties, pains, pieces.

They express in silence, or scream with meaning. Digital. Analog. Personal languages.

Not that I dislike them.

But I memorized your image long ago.

Reminiscences carrying emotions.

My emotions... flowing into intentions.

And mind you, I never wanted to hold anyone's light.

To think of keeping yours. Not even if fragmented or captured.

Only recorded, archived, catalogued.

Isolated...

What I really wanted was your presence beside me.

The I, with you.

Then the photos would make sense...

And controlling or concealing intentions has never come naturally to me.

Through supernatural effort or moral immaturity.

Or perhaps... I am simply irrational.

But it was that very same light that I fell in love with.

Though I very much wanted to keep you, as a record of a moment.

It would not be fair to imprison you in a mere fragment.

This is my belief.

It does not do justice to the testament of being present, in your presence.

For everyone who has touched my heart is part of me. Indistinguishable.

This is my true album of photographs.

My secret. A thesis of many authorships.

The pages, the stories.

The photographs, the memories.

So they can always go on, as long as I go on.

Present or not.

They always will be.

My Presents.

And these same ones, concatenated.

Recorded, experiences assimilated.

Organized by intensity.

Through reasonable or exceptional probabilities.

Those found, those justified, and those recognized.

People.

These, indeed, are the true portals of prayers and supplications.

For this perfect and infinite order is so perfect that it expresses itself in

will. Free.

My free will.