I went and saw the Pulitzer Prize winning exhibit and it was all so breath-taking. Moments, frozen in time, that one can not help but be a part of.
Age 21 made me sit there and think. 1992, and they were the same age as me. Permanently etched exactly there, I could somehow understand it all. A generation older, maybe wiser. But still...perfectly posed, so I could feel an honest connection. People that are fourteen years my senior, people I'd ignore in a crowd. That snippet of media makes me drown in perception. A person in a portrait remains forever young (unless your Dorian Grey, of course) and I can't help but grasp on to that piece of immortality. This moment will be long forgotten in ten or more years. So does the me that exists now still exist then? The future is so hard to grasp, even when your a just a memory.
I walked away, to go back to live in my own moments, in my own time. Nothing is significant, nothing is special. That's why we have to live every second like a dying fire, grasping on to everything, paying attention to nothing. The only way to stay sane in the grasping, writhing, expense of it all is to live thru for every single frame.