It`s a boring process - taking pictures. Like life. Any process is boring unless there is some infatuation to it, some kind of a quench, a search for a cure to loneliness that does not exists. A struggle. And the more of us in this struggle the merrier...
We dance in a old love hotel, listening to Nat King Cole. Its two thousand something outside, but inside its sixties, inside its matches, filterless cigarettes, mirrors and pink pillows. The dusty room blooms like a flower filled with laugh and giggles. Even silent moments are filled with ease. Greenish wall-paper looks like it came back to life, the oil of age shines on it.
"Clack, k`shaaan" - the sound that camera makes spitting polaroid. The girls start to relax, you get them naked only to remind - there is no hiding from you and each other, there is nothing to be shy of and its time to open hearts. Than the camera suck their souls and spits them out in beautiful square pictures, that take some tenderness and warmness to appear. Ah, like there lonely and scarred hearts. Everything take some warmness and tenderness to appear.
They trust you more than they even trust themselves. And you dont betray them. You follow their lead. Your plan is boring, reality is better than your imagination. You dont know that unless you gave up. Completely. So you give up.
All three of us know, when we leave this room - everyone gets back to this play of life, we enjoy the moment, we dive deep and wait for waves of infatuation fill our lungs, and bellies.
I look at them, camera in my hand, I leave the precious moment for us, and disturb the next with desire to take home the moment. I dont take pictures for pictures, I do it to cure myself even if “cure” is just a dream. So I never take the best (even when I try to convince myself and others - that this moment is the one!), no, I take the second one - cause the best is for myself. I dont take pictures to show off, I take them to drive them out of my heart.
Were drunk now, in bed full of mirrors we lay - a thousand hands, a thousand legs, a thousand breasts, a thousand heads and lips and wet flowers - were like a Banian tree, everything is intertwined, branches and roots.
Finally I disperse in them like honey in hot milk and there is nothing left of me… a! there this pictures left from camera...
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