It has been three days since I last held my camera in my hands. It sits upon my desk, even now, as I write. It sits patiently, listening to its own silence. I wonder if it waits for me. It has been three days, its patience cannot be so infinite. Why does it not grow impatient, as I do? Why does it not yearn, as I do? It is the most arrogant black box that I know. But I’m in love with my black box, and I will ignore its frailties as an inferno might ignore the rain.
My black box rests peacefully beside my books and my many rolls of unspent film. It has even welcomed a thin layer of dust to settle upon it; I see it. Perhaps it thinks I don’t, but I do. Perhaps it doesn’t care, but I do. The weight of the dust upon my camera is the same weight that is sinking my heart.
Its strap drapes softly over the edge of my desk. It trembles in the light breeze that blows through my west-facing window. It shivers, as I do; I can see it. I can see it now. I miss my black box. Why does it not miss me?
It understands the color of my sadness, I know it does. I have breathed my secrets unto it every time I have held it against my face. Only my black box can hear the sob of the sunbeam and the whisper of a shadow.
My black box is the abyss. It is where my profundities go to die. But it is also where new profundities are born. Revelations at the end of a rainbow of chemistry and magic.
Every day is a mimicry of the last, without my black box.