Into the Tunnel
Hiding Behing Clear Glass
Every moment of my teenage life I’ve spent behind a camera lens. I capture it all, making everything permanent. Nothing is fleeting if it lasts forever. I press my finger to the shutter button and take in the world that surrounds me, without ever stepping into it. The places are vividly etched into corners of my memory cards, and the people step out of the photos into a virtual escape. I fix, I tweak, I edit; and vitality escapes into two dimensions. All of my images are mine alone. They document everyone else’s lives, without being altered by my own. I make these images into all that they can be, and surround myself in a world of Photoshop and printer ink.
But sometimes, I forget. I forget my place and seep into the frame. I come into focus and accidentally capture a moment that I myself have created. These moments are my greatest mistakes. I realize that now.
Once, my concentration drifted. I looked through my thousands of daily pictures, and see over and over a single face. Her name was Amelia, and in every photo I shot on April 25, 2008, centered on her and her numerous friends. Even if the picture wasn’t of her, there was a fragment of her hair or the back of her t-shirt. For months to come I continued to shoot her, though never as much as I had that day. From then on, I slipped into a haze, where anything other than her was just a blur in the corner of the frame. My photos began lacking the quality they once had, as did my thoughts. She was constantly on my mind, though I’d never allowed myself to say her name. She was beautiful, and I felt I knew her from my photos. She never seemed to notice I was there, though I was quite good at making myself invisible. I loved her raven hair and the way it fell over her eyes. I loved her caramel skin that seemed to flush like roses in the cold. I loved her laugh and how it seemed to envelop her in joy.
As spring became summer, I began to take more and more photos of her in the sunshine, and I found I loved the way the rays of light made shadows form upon her cheek. I loved how her feet looked as they skipped daintily through flowers and fields. I loved how her fingers played with her lips when she seemed unsure. I loved how her voice flew away with her song in the wind. I loved the way her hips swayed slightly with every gentle step she took.
And as summer became fall, I began to believe I loved Amelia and all that she was and would ever be. And I resolved to tell her. I looked at the thousands upon thousands of photos of her more than once every night, and on December 17, 2008, I decided to share my love with my beloved, and show myself to the world in front of the lens.
Amelia sat in the shade of a tree with her legs crossed beneath her. She held a book in her palms but was gazing elsewhere. The sky above her shady tree was clearer than it’s ever been since, and it was clear to me that it was time to say the words I so desperately needed her to hear. With one last click of the shutter, I was ready to approach her. She continued to look away. I felt the urge to take another photo, and so I did. And another. Until she stood up and walked away. And I stood there, taking pictures, and before I thought to stop her she was gone.
That night I sat at home, scrolling through my photos on our family’s computer. The television was on in the background; my mother was glued to the evening news. Suddenly, I heard her gasp in a sullen shock. I can still hear it today if I remember hard enough. I turned, frozen as I watched the reporters talk of a girl, who went to my school. She was a “local sweetheart” some said in interviews as they continued to cover the hit and run. They ran through the story once again: A teenage girl, Amelia Evans, was the victim of a hit and run earlier that day. She was crossing the intersection of Spruce and 17th streets when an oncoming SUV failed to stop at the red light. My Amelia. My beautiful Amelia. And she’d never know.
The car was never discovered. It probably ended up in some junk yard out of state. She was laid to rest later that week, but I did not attend the funeral. I couldn’t bear the thought of infringing on the life she knew. After all, Amelia never realized I was there. I was never in her pictures, no matter how frequently she was in mine.
I refused to take a single photo for months after. I still saw everything in the gridded eyes of a viewfinder, but I left the shutter button untouched. Soon enough, though, my finger refused to obey my emotions and I began shooting again. It was then that I knew that I was not meant to love her. I was not meant for anything other than documenting the images of life.
Now, just three years later, I still come back to that spot under the tree where she sat. I’m here each week, but now, I just come to photograph the butterflies and shady trees. It is not my place to be a part of the photo and I let myself slip in where I do not belong. I look at those photos of Amelia sometimes once or twice a month, but I realize now that they don’t matter anymore.
I take photos. I capture the world that surrounds me; the world that surrounded her. But now I walk away. Into the tunnel and out of her memory. I finish my grieving, and release the shutter again.
But sometimes, I forget. I forget my place and seep into the frame. I come into focus and accidentally capture a moment that I myself have created. These moments are my greatest mistakes. I realize that now.
Once, my concentration drifted. I looked through my thousands of daily pictures, and see over and over a single face. Her name was Amelia, and in every photo I shot on April 25, 2008, centered on her and her numerous friends. Even if the picture wasn’t of her, there was a fragment of her hair or the back of her t-shirt. For months to come I continued to shoot her, though never as much as I had that day. From then on, I slipped into a haze, where anything other than her was just a blur in the corner of the frame. My photos began lacking the quality they once had, as did my thoughts. She was constantly on my mind, though I’d never allowed myself to say her name. She was beautiful, and I felt I knew her from my photos. She never seemed to notice I was there, though I was quite good at making myself invisible. I loved her raven hair and the way it fell over her eyes. I loved her caramel skin that seemed to flush like roses in the cold. I loved her laugh and how it seemed to envelop her in joy.
As spring became summer, I began to take more and more photos of her in the sunshine, and I found I loved the way the rays of light made shadows form upon her cheek. I loved how her feet looked as they skipped daintily through flowers and fields. I loved how her fingers played with her lips when she seemed unsure. I loved how her voice flew away with her song in the wind. I loved the way her hips swayed slightly with every gentle step she took.
And as summer became fall, I began to believe I loved Amelia and all that she was and would ever be. And I resolved to tell her. I looked at the thousands upon thousands of photos of her more than once every night, and on December 17, 2008, I decided to share my love with my beloved, and show myself to the world in front of the lens.
Amelia sat in the shade of a tree with her legs crossed beneath her. She held a book in her palms but was gazing elsewhere. The sky above her shady tree was clearer than it’s ever been since, and it was clear to me that it was time to say the words I so desperately needed her to hear. With one last click of the shutter, I was ready to approach her. She continued to look away. I felt the urge to take another photo, and so I did. And another. Until she stood up and walked away. And I stood there, taking pictures, and before I thought to stop her she was gone.
That night I sat at home, scrolling through my photos on our family’s computer. The television was on in the background; my mother was glued to the evening news. Suddenly, I heard her gasp in a sullen shock. I can still hear it today if I remember hard enough. I turned, frozen as I watched the reporters talk of a girl, who went to my school. She was a “local sweetheart” some said in interviews as they continued to cover the hit and run. They ran through the story once again: A teenage girl, Amelia Evans, was the victim of a hit and run earlier that day. She was crossing the intersection of Spruce and 17th streets when an oncoming SUV failed to stop at the red light. My Amelia. My beautiful Amelia. And she’d never know.
The car was never discovered. It probably ended up in some junk yard out of state. She was laid to rest later that week, but I did not attend the funeral. I couldn’t bear the thought of infringing on the life she knew. After all, Amelia never realized I was there. I was never in her pictures, no matter how frequently she was in mine.
I refused to take a single photo for months after. I still saw everything in the gridded eyes of a viewfinder, but I left the shutter button untouched. Soon enough, though, my finger refused to obey my emotions and I began shooting again. It was then that I knew that I was not meant to love her. I was not meant for anything other than documenting the images of life.
Now, just three years later, I still come back to that spot under the tree where she sat. I’m here each week, but now, I just come to photograph the butterflies and shady trees. It is not my place to be a part of the photo and I let myself slip in where I do not belong. I look at those photos of Amelia sometimes once or twice a month, but I realize now that they don’t matter anymore.
I take photos. I capture the world that surrounds me; the world that surrounded her. But now I walk away. Into the tunnel and out of her memory. I finish my grieving, and release the shutter again.