I found a set of stories I had written a while ago which were all inspired by a quote from one of my favorite psychologists, Carl Jung. If anyone is actually reading this, I hope you enjoy these.
Self-Portrait
Pointing my heavy black camera around, I aimlessly search for some sort of inspiration to capture and develop. The film is my cage, and I am in desperation, searching for my butterfly. Cars are blaring, and the city lights glimmer but I want something more... Something breath-taking, you know? Yeah, sure. I mean, who can really say they have no photography subjects in this city? It’s San Fransisco, for God’s sake. You’ve got the gigantic buildings, the colorful blur of constant movement surrounding you while the cool air whips at your reddening cheeks and watering eyes all the while.
"Stop complaining and shoot some damn pictures, moron," right? (Directly quoted from my professor, by the way.) But... I can never seem to bring myself to shoot a photograph that I’m uncertain about, in any way. Like, it has to be one of those flawless moments of certainty, where nothing--- not your own thoughts, the sound of your own breathing or the consciousness of your own being can come between you and your subject. That is the beauty of photography. It’s why I do what I do, and it’s the only thing I could ever be completely certain about.
But lately, those solid moments I lived for has reached a sudden stand-still. However, I am by no means being lazy about this sudden stagnation of inspiration. I haven’t slept for fifty three hours and counting, nor have I eaten for the past six days. I must make myself suffer until I once again taste the triumph I once savored, and appreciated as a delicacy with every click of the shutter of my camera lense. I would rather eat my own shit then surrender my passion. I take a seat next to a frilly little baby carriage, wondering where in the hell the kid’s obviously inadequate mother is as I sit and contemplate my torturous predicament.
If you’ve ever experienced the sensation of losing something, or thinking that you have lost something dear to you, you get that little twinge in your chest... a slight drop in your stomach.
But have you ever felt like you were losing the one thing that you live your whole goddamned life for? Well, that’s how I feel, and I can almost hear the seams of my heart bursting open. As for my stomach, it’s probably about two seconds away from bursting out of my mouth. I pinch a cigarette with the corners of my lips and light it. Maybe that’ll keep it down.
I lay my camera down on the table, and begin to think of how humiliated I had been last week when I came to class empty-handed. I exhale a great deal of smoke, and grip the side of my face in agony as I think of that wretched moment. It was then, that the tip of the cigarette that rests between my pointer and middle finger burns the very top of my cheek and I jump up, yelling out a long string of profanities. I bite my lip, and look down at the ugly little wrinkled thing that’s being suffocated by gaudy pink lace. It simply blinks at me."Sorry," I murmur, nervously flattening my tie against my chest. I must be crazy, talking to a damn baby, "I’m having a bad day. That’s for fucking sure." I flick my cigarette into the gutter, and pick my camera up to leave.
"Click."
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