It has been sitting quietly in its bag for months now, untouched. The bag, covered with dust, has blended so much with its surroundings, I no longer see it. It’s become invisible. The reproachful look of why you not love me anymore is gone. It has given up.
You might wonder what it’s been like for it, the emotions it has been through to end up in this state. First there would be confusion, what is happening, why am I not being used? Then fear. Has she found another one, a better one, does she not need me again. Then anger. After all I have done for you! Followed by sadness. So this is how it will be now. It ends with—nothing. Just emptiness.
Look, I swear it’s not my fault. What was I to do, with the year we’ve just had? Nowhere to go and nothing to do. Better people than me have succumbed to hopelessness. It’s not my fault.
Or so I tell myself.
There is always something to do, it used to tell me then, before it stopped talking to me.
I think it might be dead. Even though it’s never been alive because it’s not a living creature. It’s still dead.
It’s a tragic end.
Then comes that Saturday.
It’s winter and it’s cold. I open the window in my living room to get some air in. The flock of starlings have finished their weird loopy team flight thing they do and settled themselves on the tree next to my house.
And all at once I know. I know I have to get that dusty bag and open it and get it out.
So I take up the dusty bag, open it and get it out.
The lens cap got stuck, I struggle with removing it, but eventually I do. I point the lens at the tree and take a picture of the starlings. I take multiple pictures. And not just of starlings.
It’s alive. It’s alive!
And finally, the camera smiles.