Lens

I have looked upon the world through glass long softened by time, and what I see is never quite as the eye insists it must be. Light comes to me gently, as though aware of my age, bending itself before entering, consenting to be remembered rather than recorded. Edges surrender their sharpness, and in that yielding they acquire feeling; nothing is abrupt, nothing without pardon.

I do not hurry the moment. I allow it to bloom upon me—highlights swelling into a tender glow, shadows pooling with a patience modern eyes rarely afford. Faces, when they approach, are rendered not with severity but with kindness; I flatter without deceit, smoothing the harshness of truth into something more agreeable, more enduring. The world through me is quieter, warmer, and inclined toward nostalgia, as though every scene already knows it shall soon be missed.

I have seen cities softened into dreams and fields transformed into reveries. Dust upon my elements has not dulled my purpose; rather, it has taught me discretion. I choose what to reveal and what to let fall away, for I understand that memory itself is selective. Where others demand precision, I offer character. Where they seek clarity, I provide mood.

Thus I continue, an old lens with a patient gaze, persuading the present to resemble the past, and the past to feel near again. The world, when seen through me, is not merely observed—it is felt, and fondly so.