There’s something true about it.
I couldn’t put my finger on it until
I started taking enough pictures
of myself to notice that the ones
I liked most were the ones where
I felt my best. What other reason’s
there for taking our own pictures
if not to remember, to look back on
periodically that version of us
we found best? And taking them
are we not also trying to picture
ourselves in the future, to remind us
of that feeling with a certain look
that we and others (we hope!) might
recognize, might look fondly on,
might nod and say Yes, that’s you,
that’s exactly what you look like.
This must be the case, and it must
also be good. Good to remember
our better selves. By what other means
could we keep being them if not
by remembering? A photo makes it
easy to know what it was like, and
how it must’ve felt, to be our best.
But not this one. This one’s I don’t know.
Maybe it’s the lighting. The time of day.