…is giving up. And yet, that’s where I find myself these days. I feel like I’ve given up on a lot of things. The idea of love in a way that works out for me, fighting my own inner demons, and, lately, even completing this divorce.
You see, the impetus is on me to finish it. A divorce I never wanted has required me, every step of the way, to push towards its inevitable conclusion. Lately, I find myself simply not caring about it anymore. It is a vast pit for my emotions to sink themselves into in the process of further losing any sense of self I have left.
If there’s one thing I learned from the death of my grandmother not so long ago, it’s that if you find yourself doing something you don’t want to be doing then stop. Do something else. Something that brings you a sense of something better.
So, at this point, I am ready to pull the plug on the damn thing. I don’t want it anyway. It’s not fun. It doesn’t feel good. It keeps me involved in a scenario I don’t want to be involved in. Frankly, I’d feel much better about some attempt at rational conversation, about so many things I’ve already outlined here. As far as the nitpicking and legalistic bullshit, I simply don’t have the time or inclination to care anymore.
I currently am working to lift people up after a massive tragedy. It seems to me that these random, one-off, world-changing events keep finding me, especially when I am in no place whatsoever to deal with them without launching myself headfirst into them with everything that I am.
That’s what I’ve done for the last week and it has put me on the path of being a bonafide, actually published, god forbid photographer and journalist. I want very badly to be excited about this. I work diligently at it and the other necessary efforts every single day. As I write this, I know that I am losing valuable time for rest before I get up in the morning to go into yet another potentially dangerous situation where I will need all of my faculties.
And yet, as I conduct interviews, take photographs, help truck aid in and out of villages, I find myself wishing that one person was there with me to take the kinds of pictures that I still only dream of being able to produce. I feel them every time I change a setting or frame a new image of what I’m seeing. When I hold that camera it’s like touching a piece of them that only the two of us shared.
I feel like there’s magic in that lens and the mechanisms that whir and click to produce some document of what I see, what I’m living, and what might serve as my final lasting impression because, again, monsters don’t rest. They just hide waiting for you to stumble.
I haven’t stopped stumbling for almost 9 months now. One day it will catch me but not today, I think, and hopefully not tomorrow. There are people who still might be able to use me and that is one thing I do still care about.