I fall in love with strangers all the time - not in literal sense, but I guess in a more metaphorical sense. They are the ideal source of inspiration; embodying mystery, intrigue, and everything that you don't know about them.
As this dancer spun in circles of bright lights and glowing fabric, her every move kept me still and frozen in step. I took a lot of pictures of this woman and was kept in a trance as she inched along with her dancing entourage through the parade, mesmerizing passers by with their intricate costumes, resplendent through their movement and rhythmic beat.
My interest does not purely lie on the surface. My interest is in the story I give to the person; using the stencil of their image to create a narrative that can only exist in a parallel universe. Nothing I imagine can be close to the truth, nor should I want it to be. They are all stories from somewhere I know, applied to someone I don't know - like a vessel. In other words, this is what we call fantasy. And I fantasize a lot, it would seem.
These can last for fleeting moments, or days, or even months. I can stare at the same picture of someone's face for weeks on a daily basis. I build a mental shrine to them. I create my muses. I do not need to go out looking for the real thing. It's all in the way I build up a fantasy, or even damage one, that can place complete strangers on pedestals. But in them, there is always me. It is a little disturbing to think that in all this I am idolizing myself in the end. But maybe idolizing is the wrong word; maybe in the end, all that I am is what I need to know.
The things we see . . . . are the same things that are within us. There is no reality except the one contained within us. That is why so many people live such an unreal life. They take the images outside them for reality and never allow the world within to assert itself.
-from the novel "Demian" by Hermann Hesse (1919)
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