I’ve known my friend T for a long time. We’re honest with each other as much as we can be. Sometimes it doesn’t work because we’re both idiots in our own way. With that understood, no matter how far either of us travel down our own ridiculous roads, our eyes rarely blink. I can usually spot his stumbles, and he can usually spot mine.
I’ve had countless people take my picture. No one has ever managed to capture me as well as T does. It’s largely because he’s an exceptionally talented photographer. He’s trained in it and he did it for a living for more than a decade.
It’s also because he knows me so well. Every picture of me I consider my favorite came from T’s camera. It’s because he captures me as I truly am. There are no fake smiles. There are no posed shots. There is no manufactured still life. It’s just me. He shoots me.
Usually when I repost T’s photos, it’s out of vanity, because how he shoots me is how I want to see myself. The photo on the top of this blog is his (although badly photoshopped by me). Sometimes, though, T captures the essence of how I feel and what I am in a given moment. It’s something I don’t recognize until I see his processed image. And it’s not always flattering.
I’ve been running hard for the past 72 hours. During that time I’ve had at least half a dozen people ask me if I’m okay or if something was bothering me. It confused me and I didn’t understand until T posted a picture tonight. It’s both horrible and perfect at the same time. I hate the photo, but I also love it, because someday I will want to remember how I feel right now and this photo will remind me.