The World Through a Lens

“A picture is worth a thousand words.” Sometimes, I believe, this phrase is used far too often, loosing its valuable and true lesson. It is often dismissed, not pondered upon or thought of as important, just another saying in the English vocabulary. Oh how wrong it is to think this, for I once, and still am the one who documents every moment. The one that must cherish every moment, cherish every memory I recollect. I am the writer, I am the photographer. When the camera meets eye, it’s as if I am not really here, but I am somewhere else, capturing a single moment in someone else’s life. The camera used to fit so gracefully in my hands, the grooves my fingers made are still securely present. Although the shutter button hasn’t been used in years, it’s obvious it has. Obvious it was once a dark black, now but a pale grey. Obvious it was used in some other lifetime. Although my pictures are now faded, and my memories but a blur, my camera is something that made it all possible. My camera gives me character, stops time for but a second. My camera led me to someone whose identity is just as faded as my 7-year-old pictures.
         It was a cold autumn day, the sights like that out of a children’s book. My camera was slung around my neck, as I use to pretend I was one of those famous photographers who travelled the world, expressing themselves through their art. In a way, I was just like them. If I can recall, her name was June. She was a short girl, her piercing eyes so blue they resembled the ocean. She had dreams much like mine. She wanted to be an actress. I can’t help but wonder if her dreams are just as failed as mine. Back then, there was no reason to believe this day held any importance, for there was none. Except, I believe, a single photograph. The lake was, and still is, such an important place to me, the very place we were that day. I remember I was laughing; children’s jokes always did that to me. Although I can’t remember what was said, June always knew how to get to me. I have learned throughout your life, one’s dear friends know you more then you know yourself. I recall stopping, and for some reason or another, I caught something out of the corner of my eye. It was a short figure, but it was there. I quickly glanced at the figure, which could be mistaken for any powerless, meaningless boy. If I were to see him on the street, no words would be exchanged, and I would pass him off as anyone ordinary. For some reason, I was drawn to him. He was just as normal as any other boy, however, his posture was what made me take a second look, what drew me to his mystery. He stood with such ease, as if he had no fears or worries. Besides this, there were his eyes. They were a haunting green; powerful green. They looked strong, however, you could read them so well. They weren’t as strong as they looked, somehow luring. I did not say anything to him, and he did not say anything to me, however, catching his gaze caused my hands to shake. I remember sitting in silence with June, looking out at the lake, watching the ripples of the water slowly tell us a story. I told June to stand by the lake, and I motioned to my camera. She groaned, as she always did when I wanted to take a photo.
“Pictures hold no meaning, you’re going to forget about them someday, Elle!”, she would say to me. I know now June was wrong about this. As my eye met the camera, the boy, who I had forgotten about while lost in the lake’s story, was smiling at me. It was an unusual gesture, and I did not know what to make of it. I lowered my camera and stared at the boy. It was a powerful stare, into powerful eyes. It was only a few seconds, and then it was lost. I closed my eyes, but the green remained. Shaking, I raised the camera back to my face and snapped the picture.
         Years past, and I was beginning to believe June’s word’s. This picture, among thousands of others, were pushed into drawers forgotten and fading. My camera was sparsely used, not caring about capturing or saving. I guess it is true, that when you grow up you don’t have time for children’s dreams. There would be nights where I would pick up my camera and stare, rummaging through old photographs just to find a familiar face. The passion, the want, the desire had burned to but a dull flame, an ember whose fire was once existent but there is no way of telling it was once alive now. I Remember being on my bed, pictures were stern and scattered. This was a common sight for me, and I had gotten use to days where only this would occupy my time. My hands went from one picture to another, as if I were searching for a legal document instead of browsing through old photographs, my eyes fierce on every one. I must keep them safe in my hands, for they are memories of my life. Sadly, some of the faces I could not place. However, I traced the outline with my finger, gently, of every person I photographed, as if I knew them. Then, I picked up my camera, delicately and slowly, where it had been sitting untouched for more years then I can mention. I placed my fingers on the contour of the camera, caressing it as if it were a delicate piece of artwork, for it was. I held it and starred for far too long, until I slung it around my neck. I remember laughing, for when I was young I pretended I was something that I am surely not. Something I never was, and never will be. The camera felt right around my neck, where it was suppose to be all this time. I felt I needed to shoot, for the passion to take a photograph like so many years ago, was haunting me once more. I got into my car, and turned the key powerfully, making the car grumble to a noisy start. I needed to find a place, any place, a place I knew. I passed the lake three times, before pulling up and stopping at its familiar rear. I hadn’t been to such a cherished location in ages, and the first sights brought me back to a whole different life. Out of all the people and places I know, this is the one thing that hasn’t changed, which gave me a sense of warmth and comfort, like familiar things so often do. I stared at the familiar sights around me, loosing myself in the rhythmic movement of the lake. Like I did so long ago, I picked up my camera and slowly brought it to my eyes, until something was out of place. My eyes, a dull brown, met a man’s, a pale green. His eyes, his posture, they were so familiar; close. I knew this man. I had seen him before, but I couldn’t place his identity. It felt as If I had known this man. I finished raising the camera, which was now shaking in my hands, and I took a picture of the lake with such great composure. I had not lost my skill. I looked at him once more, his eyes were no more powerful then mine, but the way he looked at me suggested he knew something I didn’t. With one last glance, I left the lake.
         Later that night, thoughts of this man were haunting my mind. My index and thumb pressed hard against my head, as my elbow rested against my table. I could not think straight, for I kept reliving the stare of this familiar soul. Then, I had it. How could I have forgotten? I walked slowly to the untouched drawers by my bed, being careful not to ruin the photographs left out from earlier. My hand met the knob of the drawer, and ripped it open with such great force. The pictures scattered my floor, all memories of a better place and time, all memories that are far too hard to take. I tried to pass through them quickly, not looking at one for any longer then a second, but I was killing myself. Then, I found it. It was an old photograph, ripped at the edges. Like I had done earlier, my finger traced the outline of a blurred figure to the right. His face was faded, body straight, only his eyes remained. In the middle stood June, who looked inferior to the large lake behind her. The image of her face, like I always knew it would, made my eyes tear and my hands shake. My fingers glided from one figure to the other, returning back to the one on the right. The boy from that day with June was the man at the lake. However, what did he want and who was he? His eyes lost that passion they once carried so strongly, for they were once powerful, now but a pale green. I don’t know what made me do it, but I had to find this man. I got into my car,  the sound of the engine greeting me once again. I had to find this man, so I set off for the lake. Who was I trying to find? I know nothing about this man, but I must find him for answers. Who was I expecting; it was probably two different people, a coincidence. The stare was what gave it away, and all my attempts to bring myself back were not working. When I arrived, I wanted to find this man, but I knew if he were here I would have nothing to say to him. I couldn’t see anything in the distance, the wind was too violent and loud. I slowly pulled my sweater over my now shaking body. I breathed in and out, like a crazed animal so deep and strong. I stepped to the edge of the lake, peering out over my dark surroundings. My hopes of finding him were lost; he was not at the lake tonight. I remember looking down, for some reason or another, and seeing something right at the edge of the lake. It was a photograph, beneath the dirt and rocks at the lake’s edge. I bent over, and picked it up trying to uncovering the image. It made me jump the second I saw it, making my heart race at an unimaginable speed. Of what I could still make out of the torn photograph, it was me. I might have been a few years younger, but it was me. With me, there was the man with the deep green eyes. Our arms were entwined and we were smiling, as if in love he was kissing me on my forehead. Who was this man, and what was I doing in a picture with him? I don’t even know him, and yet I have a photograph with us appearing with such longing in our eyes. To see if there was a note, or description of the photographer, I delicately turned it around, making sure I did rip an already torn photograph. Inscribed at the back of the old, dirty photograph was a delicately handwritten “I’ll see you in another lifetime, Elle. I’m never going to forget you. Love, Ben.” I stared at his words for a while, reading them over again. Then, I put the picture in my pocket, and looked out over the lake, watching the ripples slowly tell me a story.