why I am still here, March

As an observer of privilege, the opportunity to bear witness to several moments of important, arguably all, has been mine since I took up the art of photography. Even before my sophomore year of high school, memories were in fact my lifeblood, the excitement of clearing brush in the woods, my first and hopefully last bee sting; I still lament the choice between handheld game systems. What of those I forgot, failed to record? Someone must scan negatives to archive family history. Another must use the film, past and present, to give closure to the stewing chemistry, and preserve the past for the present. It’s only natural I am still here, taking photos. It would be the same anywhere else.

To each their own, certainly, but to take pictures, to manifest visions into reality, I’m most pleased. Tastes and preferences are unique to the individual. I believe that now. Some enjoy the complaint of their station, “The trains are never on time.” I picture myself differently, but it is tried and true the individual lives to create. I do not measure myself against others, but me – have I made every vision into reality? All my dissatisfaction stems from an ambitious center.

The art still lacks, and still I strive. I am on the path to mastery, so I record my journey. Stamp my time, burn my soul, and scan my negatives to testify of a fantastic voyage. I see others also in a dogged pursuit of their ideals, so I remain to invite them aboard. To take time, reflect and log travels as they take steps. In time, I pray we invite all to exchange tales of our trials. Those visited with ambition will seek all manner of reward, but I sense where it lies.