Can I let myself accept that nothing can be captured? Nothing at all? Not one thing? That the ephemeral quality of everything I love is part of why I love those things?
Even a picture is mutable, its meaning constantly shifting, its aura and facade altering with subjectivity and nostalgia.
There is nothing in this entire world that is permanent, and we do not know the true origins of anything, even ourselves. Every rock, flower, scrap of litter, bird, plastic bag is a mystery.
In accepting that I know nothing can I empty myself and be filled with the present moment, emptied again, filled, emptied, filled, and again, until I am no longer?
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