emptiness …

.

As I write this I can’t put into words the exact emotions and physical contraction and actual physical pain my body feels.

I have no idea why I googled your name.

I have no idea why I decided to double click my mouse on the folder.

Your folder.

The forbidden one.

The one that I should have long dragged into the ‘Thrash’ bin.

The one that I didn’t have the heart nor courage to ‘Thrash’.

The one that I thought with time, I would be able to revisit without wanting to regurgitate every content in my stomach out.

The pain – both emotional and physical – is clearly there.

I recall. I remember.

I hear. I visualize … everything.

Memories – its a bitch. It bites. A gangrenous one no doubt.

What did I think? what was I thinking? {more precisely}

Was it the James Nacthwey DVD gifted to me that prompted such insanity?

I am stumped.

I am hurt. I am broken. That’s the truth.

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – 

Sometimes, I wished I am not the one hurt and left standing alone here …

Something we had talked about a lot of … in the past.

… and you, you casted my doubt away with your gentle words. Words which when I close my eyes, were no more than a soft whisper … just barely enough to blow the cobwebs that threatens to crowd out my brain.

… and you, being stern with me when I talked about death – your death {to be precise} – as a parent would be to an irrational child who fears the bogey man.

But, was I irrational?

.

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – 

.
The bogey man won in the end.

My predictions came true. 

My fears, casting a perpetual dark cloud over me.

A cloud so dark and dense that I can’t see a single ray of light.

A cloud so dark it brings chills to my spine till this day … years on …

.

.

Your photos. Your presence.

They linger on while I am left here standing alone 

… and you’d never be here ever. 

No soft whispers. No stern words and your impatient sweeping hands. 

Just me. 

And a double click away to the visual world of you.

 .

.

DEATH … you can only cheat it so many times…

today. 
tonight. 
this very instance.

I am convince I should shut the door and walk on. I should hang up my gears and never look at another photo or gear ever. Delete and drag all there is to do with photography into the ‘Thrash’ bin. And let the past be, buried deep, deep down to the core of the earth. Never able to resurface it again.

Is the recent incident a hidden message?

I wonder…

What was Naoko* thinking in her final days?

I wonder …

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* fictional character in Norwegian Wood, Haruki Murakami. Or is she for real?

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