I was looking at a photograph today—
a simple photograph, of the sun on a patio or a lawn.
It was only a simple photograph,
but yet seeing it prompted a rush of feelings.
The clear image of walking about, barefoot, in the warm late-afternoon sun,
doing nothing but enjoying it,
feeling only satisfied, without anything in the way.
It made me sad, too
when I realized that it was a memory of something
I had not actually known.
Simply a fascimile.
An elaborate painting of summer,
of a summer that I knew but yet did not know.
I have seen this sight, true.
But yet there are always complications.
Always a distraction.
Always a preoccupation.
I could almost say that I never think to pay attention.
But yet I watch.
And that feeling is not captured.
I am never simply going nowhere.
I am not content with that.
I think to miss these things only when they are so far behind me
that I only remember the fascimile,
and I have forgotten what was really happening at that moment.
That I wish for it to come again.
as if something will have changed then.
As if I will suddenly be able to appreciate the sight to its fullest,
and take in all of its emotions at once.
Perhaps I think that someday something will simply change
and I will be able to feel these things in real, connected moments.
As if I will truly feel that feeling of aimless contentment,
of walking about, barefoot, on a summer evening,
going nowhere but content with it.
But is it even possible?
Could it be true that that feeling,
that memory which is for me only a painting,
only exists in photographs?
That we are incapable of feeling that pure, simple satisfaction
at the sight of a detached moment of beauty?
Could it be that only a photograph
taken by somebody else,
a snapshot of somebody else's world,
simply a landscape
stirs those feelings which do not exist?
Could that perhaps be why we create?
To try and prompt in ourselves,
and in audiences,
feelings which we simply are incapable of feeling in the moment?
Could it be that we never have and never will
feel that feeling of aimless contentment
walking about, barefoot, on a summer evening?