There is something so mysterious about a photograph of a stranger.
Often meaningful, sometimes filled with emotion or purpose.
I am a collector of the fallen, their faces frozen in time,
Smiling or laughing, perhaps stuck in a bout of annoyance or impatience as an unwanted photo is taken.
Some new, some old, their clothes, hair styles, the buildings in the backgrounds or the cars parked on the streets paint a picture of the past.
I find them in derelict houses and condemned buildings, hiding under rotting floorboards or waiting in dusty attics.
I seek them out, because I know what it’s like to fear being forgotten.
I pick up these treasures, I pry them lovingly from moldy albums, and I wonder who these people were. I wonder where their families are, and why they forgot these lost jewels of life and memory.
I put them in boxes or use them as bookmarks, some of them are framed and hung or placed on bookshelves, some are locked away for safekeeping.
I am their keeper, and I take them out and look at them, fondly and sadly. Many of these pictures are of weddings filled with smiling couples, some old, some young, all happy and carefree, their bright eyes and beaming faces still forever, their lives all but forgotten.
Life is so fleeting. It can be pointless and meaningful at once, it can be full of fulfillment, or maybe rife with disappointment.
I have looked upon the faces and stones of the dead, and have so briefly touched the lives of many thousands of people, and it makes me realize how little I am in this universe, and yet how meaningful life is
When a smile can be shared so deeply between two people.