1225

It all begins with an impression. One that is captured through accurate electronic eyes. Every property, every faint detail of contrast and hue, of black and white, every sensation that depicts how light is reflected and perceived, is brought to an almost tangible state. Then stored with precision into countless tiny bits of digitized form.

Many impressions can be taken. At differing angles. The process repeated. Viewed and vetted. Until the perfect piece comes out. One that is worthy of being remembered.

After which it is stylized and filtered. Cropped or rotated. Further refined into a certainty that it can draw praise.

Ideally one may add textual representations of something witty or factually correct about it. Describing emotions of how the whole thing had been felt at that time.

Once finished, everything of it culminates into a specific self-expression.

The creator sends his work to the clouds. For it is only there that it can be seen. This object to be forever framed and shared. Up among the vast archives of similar articles. Each held together in endless fields of blinking and whirring repositories of memories.

These personal tokens were painstakingly made most of the time. Mementos of what was.

Once this unassuming souvenir has been immortalized its value is really not because it is a work of art. Calling it that might be presumptuous. Besides, a masterpiece is only so as judged through the eyes that have witnessed it. And what is the worth of such a thing if it has not been admired.

These vessels of recollections carry about with them a heart. Each and every one. For whosoever wishes so may have a part in it. One that increments without bounds. If only those who view it so prefer. It only takes a light tap on its symbol.

But the most anticipated participation the patient little icon expects is from one for which this whole enterprise, actually and purposely, was instituted. Yet, despite knowing firsthand that they be the reasons for such, they continue to overlook that simple little act. The creator can only wonder why.

Perhaps interest is lost. Or taken for granted. Because it is so eagerly wanted that it loses meaning of it being given. The truth is, there is not much of knowing. Yes, this one just has to wait and still wonder why.