On Rubbing Out in the Darkroom

Weeks: it has been nearly eight weeks since the tumult of events, since the final act began. I am going on months. Soon it will be next year and I will only refer to what happened as what happened at the end of the summer. It is the way I tell people of what happened before all of the recent past happened, before I left, before I came back. I tell people about what happened at the beginning of the summer as what happened at the beginning. I did not yet know then that I was merely an image. An image is not permanent just because it becomes an object. I had not yet found out, in the beginning, that I am a negative print of a person, the idea of me positive. In developing I had been left too long and the image I was became overexposed. A sheet of white paper printed with no things. Blank, I am to be used as the base for someone else's shadows.

I am glad I can help someone else become something. I can be their beginning. I do not need to orchestrate genesis because someone who has chosen to forget me will take care of the unproduction.

I throw myself open to exposure in the hopes of an offer that solicits acceptance. I am always asking to work for others because nihilism can be exhausting. To ask myself what I want and to grant it, for myself I am both the genie and the bottle. If I grant myself my own desires, do I take myself for granted?