Some Indian cultures believe that if their picture was taken their soul would become trapped in that photograph. Others believe that a camera captures the true essence of a person. That when you look into the photograph you can see who that person truly was. When you click on that button on a camera you are capturing that moment in time. Later when you examine the product of that moment you can see what that person was feeling at that very moment. Pictures can be moving, they can tell a story, and they can preserve a memory.
They can also be a bit unnerving. Having the feeling of someone watching you, eyes following your every move, and of witnessing every intimate moment creates the feeling of spiders crawling up and down your back. Every hair stands on end and this feeling of not being alone can be overwhelming for some. Everyone at some point have had this feeling come over them at some point, though they chalk it up to an active imagination. I am included in that group. I never realized how wrong I could be.
“You are becoming obsessed.” My best friend Emily stated from her place at the bar.
“I am not. I am just curious.” I was beginning to think she was right though. She would be too though if she was having the dreams I was having. If it were just the dreams I would pass it off as stress, but there was also the feeling of always having someone around me, even I was alone. It all started with a picture I bought at a yard sale a year ago.
“It is just a picture of some guy. Some guy that you do not even know. Makes no sense for you have to bought it, let alone hang it up in your house.” She has given some form of this line over the past year. I just could not bring myself to take it town. Just like I felt compelled to buy it. I asked the owner who it was and he said that the picture was found in the attic of his 100 year old house. No name or date was written anywhere on the photograph and no one in the family had any regoniztion of who he might be.
“I can’t explain to myself let alone you.” I took another drink of my margarita. Emily and I had a tradition of visiting a different bar every Friday night and having a drink taste. We tried to order all the different mixed drinks the bar offered but we never made it through the whole list before we decided to call a cab because we were way past able to drink any more. It made for interesting nights and we had met some interesting characters.
“Maggie, what you need is a real life man. Not a photograph of a man long dead.” Emily turned around on her barstool looking over the patrons. This bar was mild to some we had visited. We had discovered biker bars should remain off the list. It was not a place for two young women to experiment with getting drunk. I could see her examining a few of the guys playing pool, make a face then move on to another group of men.
“Nu uh! We had an agreement. No picking up men on our bar nights. This is girl night and plus it is never a good idea to pick up a...