A long, long time ago, I thought maybe I wanted to be a photographer. So I took a class in college. Turns out, I didn’t have the patience for it.
But what I do have to show for my efforts is a pile of black and white memories.
This one is a wonderful friend of mine. I don’t know if I took the photo in Richmond or if it was in New York. Maybe he does. (If so, let me know!)
I have others. Self-portraits, college friends and more. Looking through them brings back a flood of emotions. Each one reminds me of stories and situations. Each one means something to me.
I know that when I took them, it could not have been possible for me to know that 20-some years later, I’d see them again. More than that, it would have been impossible to know what I would be like now. What I think. Who I am.
At 20, life is all about being 20. There’s no 40-something. Hell, there’s no 30-something.
I guess it’s kind of nice in a way. To be able to be in life so gung-ho, so fully with no consideration of anything later. Because nothing later seems real. Or imaginable.
Sure, we were all working hard in school so we could land good jobs and start a career path. But it was just words. There was no way to know what it really was.
But here I am.
And though I’m no photographer, life is good.