クラムボン / おだやかな暮らし
何から話せばいいんだろう
どこまで話をしたんだろう
何度も
繰り返しては
二人の恋は終わったの
それともまだ始まってもないの
欲しいものはおだやかな暮らし
あたりまえの太い根を生やし
好きな人のてのひらががすぐそこにある
そんな毎日
何に怯えていたんだろう
何を許せなかったんだろう
何度も
繰り返しては
二人の恋は終わったの
それともまだ始まってもないの
欲しいものはおだやかな暮らし
朝にそそぐやわらかな日差し
好きな人のてのひらがすぐそこにある
そんな毎日
clammbon / a quiet life
I don't know what I should tell you first
I don't know what I've told you so far
I am thinking again and again
Are we finished?
Or did we even start?
What I want is just a quiet life rooted in the ordinary
A life with your hands close to me everyday
What was I afraid of?
What couldn't I forgive?
I am thinking again and again
Are we finished?
Or did we even start?
What I long for is just a bed of roses with the sun in the morning
A life with your hands close to me everyday
In your absence, film has become the new canvas of my life, marking perhaps a departure from things that are best left immortalized in a box of personal effects; past birthday cards, handwritten notes, a soft toy here and there, some loose jewelry, a few polaroids of us, and a photo album.
There are some pictures of you inside which I didn't like at all. They felt as if I clicked the shutter half-heartedly, like I didn't really mean to take your picture in the first place. Unsurprisingly, they turned out all dull, uninspiring and unflattering, and you wouldn't want to see them anyway. Then again, you might want to see them, because I've forgotten about them altogether, and so the scenery and memories might come across as refreshing for you.
But anyway, I was talking about film.
Now, in a capricious digital age, with instant feedback through LCD screens and virtually "free" memory on a DSLR, a film camera is a bewildering prospect for many. Perhaps returning to a nostalgic luddite phase (which partly accounts for the attraction to vinyl as my premier audio source a few years ago), film has slowed down my voracious shutter snapping habits, and made me rethink the art of composing a frame. The winding of film, the painstaking efforts to calibrate the exposure, the soft vibrations of the shutter, the anticipation as you send a roll out for developing, and the hit-and-miss wonder that accompanies the arrival of your first prints; it feels almost like becoming a proper photographer, as if a relationship with your photography is forged out of an analogue experience which the digital age deems to be archaic. Yes, it might be more expensive, but trust me on that feeling that hits you when you get that one print that tells you how all your efforts went a long way. To immortalize the infinite soul of one moment onto a piece of tangible print; that is the essence of film.
Actually, I lied about the photographs.
There was actually one I really enjoyed looking at time to time. We were in a cafe. You were across the table, with your hair bunned up, soft hands around that warm mug of chamomile tea, teary eyes to the side, somewhat deep in thought, or maybe distracted. I still can't quite remember what made you look away, why you teared, and how I managed to sneak that quick, unfocused shot of you. What I liked despite its imperfections, was how it captured that quiet moment where you allowed your emotions to run loose for a moment, before they were carefully collected, counted, and placed neatly back into that box you call a heart. If I could take that picture again, I would have asked you to look here, and you'd give me your innermost smile.
I would've used a film camera as well, because memories are not so easily deleted. Just like my dream of that quiet life we'll never share, now reduced to an afterthought as I pack up the last vestiges of us in my room.
It's still there somehow, but it's faded and soft like an old photograph.
There are some pictures of you inside which I didn't like at all. They felt as if I clicked the shutter half-heartedly, like I didn't really mean to take your picture in the first place. Unsurprisingly, they turned out all dull, uninspiring and unflattering, and you wouldn't want to see them anyway. Then again, you might want to see them, because I've forgotten about them altogether, and so the scenery and memories might come across as refreshing for you.
But anyway, I was talking about film.
Now, in a capricious digital age, with instant feedback through LCD screens and virtually "free" memory on a DSLR, a film camera is a bewildering prospect for many. Perhaps returning to a nostalgic luddite phase (which partly accounts for the attraction to vinyl as my premier audio source a few years ago), film has slowed down my voracious shutter snapping habits, and made me rethink the art of composing a frame. The winding of film, the painstaking efforts to calibrate the exposure, the soft vibrations of the shutter, the anticipation as you send a roll out for developing, and the hit-and-miss wonder that accompanies the arrival of your first prints; it feels almost like becoming a proper photographer, as if a relationship with your photography is forged out of an analogue experience which the digital age deems to be archaic. Yes, it might be more expensive, but trust me on that feeling that hits you when you get that one print that tells you how all your efforts went a long way. To immortalize the infinite soul of one moment onto a piece of tangible print; that is the essence of film.
Actually, I lied about the photographs.
There was actually one I really enjoyed looking at time to time. We were in a cafe. You were across the table, with your hair bunned up, soft hands around that warm mug of chamomile tea, teary eyes to the side, somewhat deep in thought, or maybe distracted. I still can't quite remember what made you look away, why you teared, and how I managed to sneak that quick, unfocused shot of you. What I liked despite its imperfections, was how it captured that quiet moment where you allowed your emotions to run loose for a moment, before they were carefully collected, counted, and placed neatly back into that box you call a heart. If I could take that picture again, I would have asked you to look here, and you'd give me your innermost smile.
I would've used a film camera as well, because memories are not so easily deleted. Just like my dream of that quiet life we'll never share, now reduced to an afterthought as I pack up the last vestiges of us in my room.
It's still there somehow, but it's faded and soft like an old photograph.
