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Life is too short for boring stories

Only in your hiding-place did you notice it. Just in time. Not too late yet. In your hiding place, which offers refuge from the world. In your hiding place where you harbor the world. You have omitted nothing from what you have seen. View. Not like others who just think, ha, a good motive, and already is snapped. You looked at it. You composed it. Sure, the world is as it is, but it joined in your composition. Or did you add your composition to the world? Or was it both, a joining of the world into your composition and a joining of the composition in the world. But if you stay, the composition has neither sound nor syllable. Then it is with you, and yet without meaning. Because you can only hold the dead. The living thing has to be left in order to keep it alive. Gently lift your hand. The inner surface turned upwards. Clenched to fist. You see nothing but your own fingers, and only a part of them. Then you let go. Stretch your fingers and spread them apart. Area. As straight as possible. And look, life settles on it. Swing. Sounds. Sings. Just in time you noticed it in your hiding place.

 

Moment by moment by moment, which you have held, welded in compositions. Your tact. Your music. Your voice. But it cannot be without what comes to you from the outside. Clock from the outside. Music from the outside. Voice from the outside. Join the dialogue. Determine the time. Makes you decide by time. Take of the mood. Then you will make it. The moment of life. In the past, you said that you hold on to it or spell it or fix it. Until you realize that you kill it when you hold it or spell or fixate it. But now that you let it happen to you and portray, now you enter into the dialogue and the moment you take with you remains a living one. Traces of life. Details. Moments self-sustaining, and yet entering into a whole. Deepening and promising. Only the depicted, which always points beyond itself. Moment by moment by moment.

 

And there is no longer any hideout, only retreat and exodus. You look at the moment that the photograph surrenders. You enter into it and into the dialogue, with your former ego, the world of the time, and rediscover it with your ego in the now. The hand with the palm up. Refreshed when you take your photographs. You leave it to. The dialogue outside of you, outside your own composition. Part of you. Give life by allowing the dialogue allows the moment of your composition to be transformed into the moment of another.

 

Strangeness, or simply impartiality, which examines, scrutinizes, accepts, and begins its own dialogue. Tell of a seeing that is not yours, tell of a non-seeing that is not yours. For the existent and the non-existent live. Tell of a happening in your moment that is not yours, tells of a non-happening in your moment that is not yours. Not yours and yours, like little feathers that throw your hand in the air, which descend again and arrange themselves to a new one.

 

Your composition in the world and the world in your composition becomes an our-composition in the world and the world in our composition. If you allow this to leave something that preserves a living meaning only in the dialogical process.

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