I started taking photos again. As me. As ALAN. Thoughtlessly. Not with my camera, with my crappy phone, because I stopped carrying my camera around with me, because I fell out of love with photography – or really, it fell out of love with me, and it hurt too much to have that weight hanging round my neck.
I don’t think I was in love with him.
I think I was in love with the idea or maybe the potential that I wouldn’t be alone.
So my heart’s not broken for him. My heart is broken for me.
The story has changed
// A sort of experiment
Hypothesis : That I will not meet ‘the one’ but I will have some good conversations, ‘real life’ meetings and make some new friends.
Actually, let’s think about this – this is Tinder we are talking about. So, scratch that.
Hypothesis II : I will experience utter disappointment after secretly hoping to meet ‘the one’ (even though this is Tinder we are talking about) and my faith in humanity will most definitely not be restored.
Isn’t all art about life or death. And isn’t all life about love or the loss of it. So doesn’t art = love / the sanctity of life / the preservation of love / and what happens when we lose it