A click of a camera can never capture the real beauty and elegance of life.
The colors won’t appear the same, the depth will be crushed into a single line, and the small details will be smudged against a screen. Yet, clicks sound all around the world, all day, without a sound. The altered views are plastered on the insincere screens we stick our hands on.
The tips of the trees are reflected with a golden shimmer that gives the green leaves a yellow glow. When the click sounds, the yellow shade disappears in an instant and is replaced by a green shade that, although pretty, doesn’t give the same view of satisfaction.
The blended sky colors when the sun is almost gone show shades that you can’t find in a box of crayons. They are so rare that you don’t even notice at first sight, until the color pops in the gradient along the sky. Then, the click is attempted, and it becomes a solid light blue with a single other shade.
The glittering reflection along a lake is like diamonds floating in the rays between the waves. They blind you with their vision until they become almost animated, prancing along the surface. Then you hear a click, and the diamonds freeze and fall back to the water’s depths.
A perfect flower sits in a garden, with each petal equally folded back, reflecting each other. To the side, another flower sits, with a ladybug resting on one of its slightly less symmetrical petals. Although it may not be as perfect, the side flower has a different perfection of the true action of life and metaphors. Yet, the click barely captures the farthest out tip of the side flower’s petal, instead capturing the still and perfect, rare flower.
Some things make the sounds of repetitive clicks blind in other ways than sight. The sounds of crashing waves, and the whisper song of the wind. The delicate movement of a bird skimming along the perfect clouds and the flutter of light pink curtains overlooking a large, luxurious garden. The scent of a moist morning when the world is covered in a blanket of mist and the essence of delicious pastries past the aesthetic door frame of a bakery. The clicks happen to mask it all with it’s omnipotent presence. Everyone becomes focused with the perfect clicks and the various varieties they can only possibly capture, and everyone forgets the fragments of each frame that can never be accurately captured.
We all walk with our heads buried in a box, hoping that the simple, stupid, silly box can cure all of our worries and create a version of ourselves for everyone else to appreciate. We forget to appreciate ourselves and the beauty around us. Just like the misty morning or a golden tree top, we can not be accurately stuffed into a box or a frame because an edge will be cut off or a dimension will be lost in translation.
Losing the clicks may seem like losing ourselves until we can learn to appreciate all that may lie behind them.
