“There is a procession on the plaza. Do you want to go?”
Cold seeps and curls around the edges of my body but my mind burns white-hot. Like a reflex this photography thing. I move as an individual in a sea of fellow humans. Darkness and light. There is nothing else, besides the unknown of things like dark matter and faith, of which I know almost nothing.
The leap has been made, by many. My faith lives in the backlit glory of shutter speeds and aperture, the sound of a motor drive or the rough grind of the rewind knob. I don’t know much else, but I know I don’t need much else.
Glasses fogged, dodging security and their flashlights, lined up waiting for a riot that will never come. Orange vests, arms waving to keep the hordes and their devices out of the most private of ceremonial parts. Just leave them be and listen. Watch, wait and pounce when the light is just so.
There is nothing else in this mode. There is only the hunt, the search for ingredients that make the visual cake. My cake different from yours. The taste both sweet and light and as bitter as the coldest of clear nights. Stars burning down through manmade layer upon layer, uncaring. We patter about assigning meaning. It’s just what we do.
Mere minutes pass and I’m called away, but I have the fix I so craved. Just a taste. Enough to remind me that this part of my life needs replenishment. I know this, and I have known this for quite some time. The remedy is right before me, staring back in silence as the temperature falls and my breath flashes forward like a dragon’s tongue, white and whispery.