every photo should have a story. some sort of line tagged behind it. some thought. some something. whether it be a photo of a blank sheet of paper or a newly tarred parking lot. whether it be a photo of a million fish swimming in a neighborhood pool or a baby floating in the sky after being released from the hands of its father. every photo should have a story.
on first viewing this photo, you may not know what exactly to look for or at. but there is a man. who had just gotten off of work, i assume. his hands were coated in gray which looked like debris. as if he had been working hard in the field of construction. he was consuming his hamburger as if it were his last. and all the while, i starred at him. making certain that i avoided eye contact because i did not want him to catch my eyes prowling his every move. he was different. his eyes were wide. like his eyelashes had been taped to his eye lids, holding his eyes open. he was different.
i wanted to know his story. but instead, he, unknowingly, created a story within me of wonder. wondering where he came from. why he looked so stressed. what his hands were covered in. if he could release the tension that kept his eyes wide. if the bottle that he drank from was given to him by someone special or if he had earned it with his laboring hands. i don't know and the unsettling thing about it is that i may never know.
today is my brothers birthday. happy birthday, george. i need to write some things down.
