The first camera I truly appreciated
was given to me on my fifteenth birthday.
White as porcelain,
rectangular with bumps and ridges.
It was a polaroid, ready to instantly print
a moment.
My hands were delicate, I held it so gently.
Afraid to damage it, get
a single smudge or knick on the lens.
Everyone thought it was ridiculous, the
way I carried it so carefully and watched over it.
It was just an object,
for some even a toy.
But not for me.
My camera was different.
It was for my pictures, my moments, my
memories.
The times I chose to remember.
With my camera I could do anything.
Capture any year, month, day, or second forever.
People take digital cameras for granted.
The ability to snap hundreds of pictures at once.
Continually pressing the shutter, taking a snap
every millisecond.
Casually deleting the ones that didn’t come out right.
A picture with film means so much more.
It has to be special, taken at the perfect time.
There is no re-do, no way to manipulate it
with technology.
It is a memory in it’s purest form.
Tangible, a way to carry a moment in a pocket.
With film, a picture is much more permanent.
More honest and truthful.
One look at that polaroid picture and you’re back to
that very moment it was taken.
That is nostalgia.
Happiness.
Sadness.