Essays,  Writer's Cafe

Crooked, Beautiful Things

I used to dream of capturing beautiful things when I was a kid. I think that was one of the main reasons why I wanted to be a filmmaker before I even knew what it was called.

I wanted to capture the sunlight on someone’s hair or the flowers on a pretty white house’s windowsill. But growing up I realized that beauty wasn’t enough, I wanted the energy, the feelings that radiated from those images. I wanted images that had a life of its own, that had stories to tell.

And this is what I realized while I waded through teenage insecurities, adolescent angst and adulthood – life won’t always look picture perfect. The moments that I wanted to pause or imprint in my mind weren’t always the most photogenic.

And the photogenic ones almost always happen when the timing’s off.

I’d love to curate my photographs, style them in a minimalist fashion but I can’t because my own life isn’t always white, or clean, or aligned.

Often, it is crooked, filled with cracks and smudges. My life often spills over, I make as much mess as toddlers, sometimes worse.

And I wish the people I love would allow me to do just that. Make mistakes, stumble and fumble, allow me to stress and cry over things by myself, and let me fix things on my own – without judgment.

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