What is in an image? A memory? Or, perhaps, a thought? If an image were to be broken down to the finest strokes of its existence, would we understand it? Or, would the vast intricacies perplex and distort the perfection of the image. It might be that we become so preoccupied with solving the mystery of the image that we entirely lose sight of its intended purpose. Nonetheless, others may not care enough about the image to even appreciate it. Does than the value and purpose of the image, memory or thought become insignificant?
Whether we acknowledge it or not, our minds are imprisoned by these images, memories and thoughts. The emotions induced by the images and scenes leave us captivated and enamored, yet perpetually discontent. As soon as gratification abounds, it abandons us into a pool of unforgiving emotions. Although remnants of that gratification become instilled within the memoirs of the mind, nothing again will ever equally replicate the now fragmented sentiments. Will the images ever make sense? Do they have meaning? Or, are we perpetually inundating our minds with habitual hopes to comprehend what was never intended to be revealed?
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