Listening to the ticking sound of an old clock, resting on a table now empty, wondering on thy past. Sensing the smell of a pie who’s creator rests within the world of dreams. Beside me on this table, carved with with a knife called time, rests a bunch of apples, as small as a bunch of wild berries, which in Maltese we call a “Merh”.

The window, wide open letting the cool breeze inside, helping my pencil through its scribbling symphony, wondering what else to draw, wishing no end for this timeless moment.

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Was it a dream, I ask and now that I think of it, am I awaken or am I dreaming of being awaken, and thus eluding myself of being awake, eluding myself into a world of surrealism. I realized that my strengths were also my weaknesses and beliefs were also my un-answered questions. I found out that the cliff that held the bastions has now crumbled down like a wall of sand. I find out that the tree I once looked at, so strong and resilient is now nothing more than a petal, so fragile so frail. It was like a storm building up far out at sea but then turning out to be a ripple in a fish tank. Does it make sense to fall back in the dream and start all over again or is it better to grief and live an awaken existence?

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And whilst feeling the vibrating shutter make it’s click, I thought how this lens compares to a magnet that attracts these moments to compose an expression. It seemed as if time stopped, and light fell just on the right spots, as if gravity was the Michelangelo in the middle of a masterpiece, shaping the moment through shadows. It was as if there was no deformation through the lens and the reflection of the right tones composed the image as it was meant to be.

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