It is probably the hardest part of being a photographer. The part where you are asked to blog about it by a restless mind, resting away from a poxy attack.
I could exchange nothing in the world for the inexplicable joy that pellets my soul when I'm behind the lens.
The lens transform me. Into different people. Every time.
I move perhaps not an inch, and yet into a wanderer. An explorer. A philosopher. An analyst. A curious child. A divinely mad woman. A political bribe. A piece of god.
I find myself awaken and come alive.
Strange, how behind the viewfinder my eyes begin to see.
The same eyes looking at the same things, suddenly set out to explore, to behold and to capture a different space. A different world. A world between me and my camera.
I could exchange nothing in the world for the inexplicable joy that pellets my soul when I'm behind the lens.
The lens transform me. Into different people. Every time.
I move perhaps not an inch, and yet into a wanderer. An explorer. A philosopher. An analyst. A curious child. A divinely mad woman. A political bribe. A piece of god.
I find myself awaken and come alive.
Strange, how behind the viewfinder my eyes begin to see.
The same eyes looking at the same things, suddenly set out to explore, to behold and to capture a different space. A different world. A world between me and my camera.
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