The awkwardness was overwhelming.

I couldn't stand to look at her, least of all through the viewfinder.
As I returned home I came to the realization that it wasn't dealing with her that was the problem. It was the fact that she was forcing me to be confronted with the image of her.

The image of her has become more powerful than her actual presence.
I remember burning every picture of her except for a single Polaroid.
Why just one?
Was I trying to erase the memory...but not the idea?

Now as I edit the pictures of her she stares me down through the lifelessness of the monitor. The face I used to kiss is now reduced to pixels.
Dispassionate information.

the question: who is looking?

when applied to an art historical discourse, this question is important.
when applied to social interaction, this question can also be important, but shouldn't be. should it?

Declaration of Dependence

I am here to declare that this is now a living, breathing weblog.