Lack of Limits.

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They say that there’s beauty in a storm. This isn’t quite a storm, but I feel as though I can relate to some of the objects that I take pictures of.

Over the past few months, I’ve learnt to appreciate nature more, especially the sky. The way that the clouds change shape and the colours that fill the air, they change as often as the thoughts in my head.

They also say that the sky is limitless, and as much as I always knew that, sometimes I was blind to anything that lacked a limit because I had made it possible to make most things limited for so long that I just simply thought inside of a box.

When I shoot pictures, I look through the lense and see what I was seeing prior to holding the camera up to my eye, but because the lense cuts out half of the scenery sometimes, that makes me feel in control. It gives me the power to decide what other people may see once the photo is taken. Do I want to take pictures of that bird over there flying over my house? That tree is propped against the rocks near the river, do I want to take a picture of it’s shadow because it looks like it’s a person sitting on something? The decision is mine.

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Phototherapy

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I’m still a beginner with taking pictures. I just bought a new camera a few weeks ago with the intent of taking pictures of anything and everything.

I find that inbetween Therapy sessions, photography helps bring my creative side out. There are only so many outlets that help me and the lense is one.

This picture could have been taken better, but it shows a place I grew up. Pictures tell a thousand words.

Canvas Lashes

Song that I am listening to while writing the following poem: 

Let Me Go By KDrew, Rico & Miella

If only I could muster of the words to tell people exactly how I feel                                                                                                                                                                               As limited as my vocabulary is, my breath mutters more than any definition could scream                                                                                                                                       So the way my body moves is it’s own language undefined, unnoticed

Tear drops are the one thing I can rely on, just as pictures explain more than anything vocalized ever could                                                                                                       It’s taken me years to realize, appreciate such gestures as those subliminal images                                                                                                                                             Atleast for now, poetry radiates a bit of what can be seen if you allow your imagination to gather enough information from such things

For now, kisses are the one form of poetry I haven’t experienced enough                                                                                                                                                                 The way lips softly brush the canvas with light strokes and                                                                                                                                                                                       butterfly lashes fluttering quickly as fast as one blinks                                                                                                                                                                                           marking it’s territory by leaving trails of salty tear like substances

One day I’ll be able to find a new canvas to project such broad ideas onto                                                                                                                                                                 and jump back and look for a bird’s eye view as such an illusion may appear from afar

Stuck While Flowing

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Sometimes I feel as though I am the river and the rocks are my obstacles.

No matter how hard I try to push the bigger rocks out of the way, I aim for the smaller ones first becausw rhey don’t seem to matter.

By the time I reach back to the bigger boulders, they feel heavy with the emotional weight I gained by focusing on the things that didn’t matter as much.

There I am, slightly bent at the knees, straight back, as thigh I were lifting a heavy box, trying to pick up what I had purposely left behind in the hopes of them disappearing, being washed away somehow, crushed beneath the earth’s gravity.

Sometimes with a strong effort, like a tornado of wind, the boulders move slightly, but when I don’t act quick enough, other rocks gather around and sit there and becoming like the others. Unthought of and waiting.