So I went out chasing ghosts.
With a tripod and a camera and then drove off to see a few places of personal significance, places with a sweet, and bitter, if not a little nasty aftertaste. You know, the sort of places where things took place—things that for some reason became welded to your memory—and afterwards history happened.
It can’t be seen in the photo but the rain was banging on the umbrella as I took it. Loud. Though I was reluctant to think that photos of the aforementioned significant places could become anything but a postit note to myself, standing there with the sound of the raindrops buzzing in my ears I noticed how the gut feeling started to hope that this one might turn into something more. Now I think it’ll grow on me. Well aware of how it, the photo, is still young and that later I might feel the opposite.
I guess, no matter what the history, and perhaps even because of history, places can posess a bit of a heartbreaking beauty. Making it even harder not to love them.