It is I. My phone has been left behind. Communication just got more interesting. So ga far so good. I am writing from a corner of the world. About to head out in a bit. Interesting photography exposition, some intense but just different perspectives and lives lived, some not how you imagine, some feeling like there is no home, some feeling like dying already, some numbing themselbes from pain. What do ues omce do? And what has led them to se that, some have been victims and the system turns them into criminals. Anyway ,y countown is up and the dogs are playing tag. The noise finally quiety
14/1/2025 @ 22:24
Original
Latest iteration Revised Text:
“Here I stand alone, phone abandoned - putting good use to an almost forgotten art of letter writing; a crisp sheet of paper playing canvas to these inky thoughts spilling from the tip of my pen. Written from a forgotten corner of the world, albeit a captivating one. Don't you worry though, I'm making good time and endeavoring to keep things lively,” I muse to myself, adding a script to the silent monologue.
A distant clock chimed, signaling my departure was due. “An intriguing invitation, a promised spectacle of the raw human essence. Every picture whispering a story seductively unto minds willing to break free from the cocoon of their reality. Some quite intense,” I peruse the paper again, “As though the photographer snuck a brush-stroke of sorrow into a canvas of normalcy: hidden narratives of sunken eyes staring blankly into nothing at uncertainty of tomorrow; tired faces, smudged with layers of tales lived and yet to be lived.”
“What story will these photographic breaths hint about their subjects?” The question echoes as I scribble rapidly, the blue ink of my fountain pen pushed harder onto the parchment paper by every fleeting thought.
I continued, “Lives lived...and not as one would think. Shattering notions and perhaps soliciting gentle streams of empathy towards the forsaken forgotten by society, yet living in their shells. Cast like playing dice in life's dicey game – some feeling uprooted, dislocated within their own homes, others trembling on the line 'tween life and death; some numbing their whole lives, their existence, under the burden of unbearable afflictions. Used and defrauded – having experienced the darkness in hearts snaking around within the system; labeled victim today, stamped criminal tomorrow.”
My final fleeting thoughts fall from pen to paper, "Oh! Wait a moment. The thunder of paws converged into a noisy fur storm. A flurry of snouts, tails, and canine laughter chasing one another in a merry-go-round, paying a noisy tribute to their moment of joy. Suddenly, my cocoon of thought was breached by their cacophony. The silence I once had, timidly withdrew to a quieter place."
Time waits for no one. I seal the letter and pen the delivery: "See thee on the morrow, familiar stranger!"
Iteration 1 It is I. My phone has been left behind. Communication just got more interesting. So far so good. I am writing from a corner of the world. About to head out in a bit. Interesting photography exposition, some intense but just different perspectives and lives lived, some not how you imagine, some feeling like there is no home, some feeling like dying already, some numbing themselves from pain. What do you do? And what has led them to see that, some have been victims and the system turns them into criminals. Anyway, my countdown is up and the dogs are playing tag. The noise finally quieted.