I often reminisce about the years spent traveling with just a backpack—free from clutter. I long for that simplicity, but daydreaming only leads to procrastination. Reality snaps me back as I sort through the clutter, each item a piece of my past—drawings, books, rare LPs—all discarded in my purge. It’s a coping mechanism, but with each item I toss, I feel drained, knowing there’s more left.
A weight presses down as my routine unravels, the mundane becoming monumental. The ache in my back deepens, a sharp reminder that stress and responsibility are closing in. I need to walk it off.
I step outside, letting the street swallow me. A few blocks later, I pass a tense group loitering on the corner and quicken my pace, gripping my camera tighter. It’s my lifeline, my control.
At the bus stop, the air is thick with sweat, exhaust, and the pungent scent of human waste, evidence of the street's forgotten hours. Mopeds zoom by, likely the same assholes who woke me last night.
Up ahead, a heavyset guy is shoved out of a seafood shop, shirtless and red-faced. He hurls a bag of clams onto the street, ranting. Just another day in the city.
“Yeah, you and me both, brah,” I mutter. The chaos freezes for a moment, then resumes. What’s new?
Through it all, I find solace in my lens. I’m no Magnum photographer, but I find honesty in capturing life’s messy moments. Some days I search for the perfect shot but come up empty—or with just a few decent ones. But sometimes, luck smiles, and when it does, it’s enough to keep me going.
These moments of clarity remind me why I carry my camera. It’s my escape, a way to focus outside the noise. “Fire at will,” I tell myself, a mantra that lets me shoot without hesitation—a small act of rebellion against the clutter, both physical and mental. In that instant, everything feels a little more manageable.
