In the photograph, the table is a stage.
Bathed in soft, ghostless light, it holds its cast of quiet things:
a porcelain teacup,
a tarnished spoon,
a folded napkin with a forgotten crease.
They are not arranged — they rest.
Not placed for beauty, not caught in motion.
Just there.
The cup will never rattle from laughter again.
No hand will lift the spoon toward sugar or soup.
The napkin will never again absorb a spill, or feel the worry of idle fingers.
Dust once danced around them, settled on them,
was brushed away with care or indifference.
But in this frame, dust has no meaning.
Time cannot cling.
There is no future, no decay.
These objects do not wait.
They do not remember.
They simply are —
held in the hush of photographic stillness,
where silence is louder than use
and presence means more than purpose.
The table, once a witness to living,
has become a shrine to being.
Forever paused.
Forever perfect in its uselessness.
1 comment:
Somehow sad yet beautiful. I was thinking of a museum until I read further.....so true.
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