Paparazzo

Confession of your number one Paparazzo:

In the pack of other men with cameras, following, filming, running and dashing to where they think you may be next, I stand without equal. I am not here to snap and sell a picture of you. In fact, my camera doesn’t even have film. I must admit, that I do not even know how to use this camera, nothing but the flash even works – I bought it at a discount off the internet.

Ultimately, I simply carry the camera so that I have an excuse to be where you are. You see, it just so happens that every time I figure out and go to where you are, these other men with cameras always seem to be there too. I don’t understand them, they don’t love you the way I do. They follow you to sell you - I just follow you so that I can see you. So I can be near you. So that that I can see you with my own eyes. In my heart of hearts I pray deeply and sincerely that God find it in his heart to allow you to talk to me one day. Touch me. Kiss me?

Of course, I go to every public performance that I possibly can, if only to hear your voice and see your skin with my own ears and eyes. To perhaps smell some part of your perfume, or to touch any place your body has been, the floor, the hand rail, a bench, the seat - Anything.

The flashing lights of paparazzi scare me as much as they must you. Really, I am always afraid that someone will figure me out. I haven’t quite figured out how act like I am a real photographer. Sometimes I even forget to activate the flash, and I just hold my camera as my heart jumps out of my chest and towards you. Their cameras are like piranha or barracuda ripping at your flash, it hurts me that you even think I am one of them.

Between their many flashes, I can see your every movement; the flashes are white like lightning-strobelights that slow your movements down into quickly fading eternities. I just wish we could have a few moments to speak, to talk, to touch.

I am not a paparazzo, just your greatest admirer.