There are billions of images. Trillions. Trillions of billions. Each of us sees a thousand images every few minutes. Each of us lives a thousand and a half minutes every day. Each day is a stream of images. And there are six billions of us on Earth, just now. There were billions before us. There would be some more after us. Each of those has seen their own, private stream of images. Trillions of billions of images, scenes, pictures. A torrent, a waterfall of images.

Some try to catch the best of those they are privileged to see. They are like fishermen in a flood or wanderers in a desert trying to catch and preserve the most beautiful grains of sand in a raging sandstorm. They are trying to freeze images as we freeze food, trying to preserve its color, smell, taste. Trying to conserve the sparks of emotions they ignited within.

If they catch them with a machine, we call them photographers. If they do it with a hand armed with a brush we call them painters. If they do it with bare hands we call them mimes. And those of us who do it with words are called writers.

I have been out fishing tonight. I caught some moments รขโ‚ฌโ€œ beautiful and not, reflective or sad, mostly black & white. I carried them carefully home, like butterflies, still alive in the grasp of my mind, still flapping their wings feebly. I will now pin them down with words, freeze them, so that I could revive them later in an attempt to induce them in others.

But why? I don’t know and I don’t even care. I have to. They seem so precious, those few out of myriad. They’re mine.