I hear screams too.

Artist: Edvard Munch
Title: Skrik (The Scream), 1893

Dear Fanatic,

I got hit by a train (I am convinced). I hear footsteps. Concussion. The word stretches like the Nordic Sea, across the lips of its speaker: the doctor? I am not sure. My vision blurs and swirls, the colors mix. Red and blue. Red and blue. And yellow? Confusion. I hear footsteps, the clank of expensive shoes against moldy wood. The cracks and endless, limitations. My ears shut, the scratches. Imagine: Folding Styrofoam. Tracing your freshly filed nails on a chalkboard. Plastic chafing. Continuous repetition as the images move faster and faster. Until a silent pose. Smooth, fragile porcelain (A figure of speech). Then, at final glance I hear. 
The Scream. 

Note: The click of a photographer’s camera lens is a defining moment. It captures. It remembers. It speaks. Pictures seduce us. Words intrigue. A concoction of that sort is lethal; some pictures whisper, some whistle in the wind. And some, if looked closely enough, scream. Capture and share. Send. picturesquescript@gmail.com 


photo credit: google images