Satisfying my obsessive compulsions through the pursuit of creativity and personal betterment

Thursday, February 16, 2012


I've taken a thousand pictures. I have tried different angles, lighting, settings, and distances. I've gotten different expressions, motions, looking straight at the camera, away, focusing on her tiny fists held up for observation, and intensely gazing into my eyes. I've taken pictures of her dark brown hair wisping around her ears, her grey-blue eyes, her puckered mouth, her little fingers, and her chubby cheeks. But nothing comes even close to her vibrancy, how *alive* she feels as you look at her, as she looks at you, completely trusting you. More than trust: it's as if the word trust does not exist, because it implies that there could be an opposite. She lives in a world where she can never imagine harm, pain, or anything but love, devotion, warmth, and kind words. No camera can capture her intensity, her intelligence, her innocence, her knowing. But more than that, no one else could see it either. No one will ever see or feel her as vibrantly and as real as I can. No one can ever see a child through the eyes of her mother.
I am afraid that no matter how many pictures I take, I will forget her just as she is, right now.
Innocent and perfect.

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