See those pigments of indigo on the horizon?

It’s amazing, really, when your talent is appreciated.
My newfound talent, of course, being photography, has become more of an obsession than anything now, and god knows it, it’s paying off.

There’s a moth resting on the terracotta wall. *click*
There’s an old brown brick that’s jutting out on the wall. *click*
There’s a pipe that’s leaking sewage water of the sludgiest kind. *click*
There’s a rusted old candlestick. *click*
There’s a once magnificent building that has lived its life in grandeur and now lies in ruins. *click*
There’s the sky; she looks like she’s about to burst into flames. *click*

I find beauty in ruined figments of the past. Once grand buildings, now lying in dust. Rust. Dirt. Cracks on the wall. Dust. Ancient spider webs. Everything I see, I click a photograph of it my mind’s eye, and make sure I come back to the same spot with my camera and capture it in its entirety. Browns and greys, hues of pale yellow and desaturated red, monochromatic shades of faded light. It’s all a game of chess in my mind now.

To click or not to click.

*click*

I admit, the world is a beautiful place, but there are some things that go unnoticed by many.
Those small, brilliant shards of nature’s big glass of wine. Those are the things I notice.
And someone needs to put them on paper, to say the least. Putting visuals on paper, of course, involves photography.

I take my camera everywhere these days. The night, I must say, is the best time to take photographs. When there’s absolutely no one in sight. When there’s a dark beauty in everything you observe, when the lighting is just perfect to capture the most beautiful visuals ever. Taking walks on deserted alleys after midnight, and clicking away has become a routine activity now, wherever I go.

Might as well put my insomnia to good use eh?

Apocalypse, if you please.

Trying not to close my eyes so soon.
There's a cold breeze streaming from the vents that inscribe the tall and gritty brick walls that imprison me.
As depressing as a bucket filled to the top with carcasses of fish, those dead eyes gazing blankly at the brink of extinction.
The walls are cracking, the lightning shaped dents expanding at a pace the naked eye can not read.
Life, as we know it, is ebbing away from every bare inch of ground under my cold feet.
Gritty old kettles rattle in the lonely shed, clammy nuggets of snow coat the old wooden shed door as it hails as it's never hailed before.
Green and yellow are things of the past, monochromed shades of brown and grey are all I can see.
The ground now quakes, impending surges of a strange aura of dread envelops the surroundings.
What is left of the sun, is a tiny dot of brilliant white light somewhere beyond the endless horizons of empty space.
Now I stand inside the dingy, dully lit toolshed with a pickaxe in my bare arms.
All love is lost. I am the last man standing. A miniscule fibre of flesh on my lower arm I scrape with the pickaxe.
I am the last man standing.
The last.
'Tis too cold.
As I watch the depressing grey skies signal the marching drum beat of impending doom, as I watch our mighty earth being swallowed up by the throats of an unknown force that is hell bent upon destroying Infinity,

I pick up the pickaxe.
And I bring it down upon my skull.
Goodbye Earth.




And THAT is how I imagine the End Of The World to be.

Cheers, folks.