It was a bitter sweet moment. The fleeting touch, the memories that concretised and materialised out of thin air. There was a strange tension in the air, one that was filled to the brim with potential, but the tension remained. The strange moment just before something happens. No one is certain about what will follow, but everyone is certain that something will happen. Trepidation, anticipation.

Suspended in this strange liminality, the moment just before you move from one point in time to another, the girl stood transfixed, staring into the abyss of utmost potential. I stood next to the girl and we both looked into this abyss, the oblivion, the end of the journey. But we both knew it was not the end. Our hands touched, fleeting moments, and then we took those next steps into the abyss, not knowing what lies ahead, not knowing if there will be a next step...

This week, I found the girl on the cusp of change. I took some photographs of her, and I ended up dancing with her. The fleeting moment was just that, fleeting. I share with you that fleeting moment, which I managed to capture to some extent on photograph. Please enjoy these photographs and my usual musings at the end of the post.

---

"Rosemary and Denim Nostalgia"

---

---

---

---

---

---

Postscriptum, or Musings about Time

Time is a strange thing. We move in and through time. I am a being in time. I cannot escape this fact. Everything I do and who I am is a mark of time. I exist today in the present moment busy with things at this point in time. Interestingly, Aristotle stated many years ago that the present moment does not exist, as the line between yesterday, what had already happened, and tomorrow, what still needs to happen, is so thin that it does not exist. I am thus perpetually in limbo, in a liminal state, the in-between state of not yet and already happened. It is such a strange thought to have.

One moment she was there, and in the blink of an eye she was gone. It was only a dream and the fleeting touch, that moment that seemed to last forever, vanished into thin air. She was still dancing when I closed my eyes and when I opened them there was nothing left. Only the sand in the palm of my hand. And a flower. A flower made of paper, thin, delicate, vulnerable. In the leaves, I could find traces of the dream, traces of her. But that was all that remained. Traces. Breadcrumbs that lead into the abyss.

But dreams come back, and if you follow the breadcrumbs, they might just lead to the thing that you desire.

I hope that you enjoyed this series of photographs and the strange musings I always pair them with.

For now, happy photographing and keep well.

All of the writings and musings in this post are my own, albeit inspired by the girl I could never write. The photographs are also my own, taken with my Nikon D300 and Nikkor 50mm lens.