Personal Narrative: A Career In Photography

photograph:
When I was younger, my mother got me a polaroid camera for my birthday. That summer, I took it with me everywhere - from exploring the nooks and crannies of my old childhood house to simply taking pictures of others - I knew I had found a passion. I shied away, however, each time someone took a picture of me; I covered my face with my hands and looked the other direction. People like me weren't meant to be taken pictures of. It wasn't self-loathing, it wasn't so extreme - but I had grown an aversion to showing my face, I wasn't as pretty as my friends. I felt overshadowed, so I stuck to the background, my face hidden behind a camera. It was this initial aversion to my face and body that had gotten me so engrossed into photography, and it was the effort that I poured into it that drew the attention of many when I finally published a portfolio.
My success was strange to me. What came out of one summer had brought me a career and a lifetime's work. I lived off the beauty of the streets of the city I had grown up in; my eyes raced to every sunset and my heart fluttered when something caught my eyes, with my hands reaching for
and he came, creeping up behind me. I didn't even get a proper glance at him, just the pitcher, half-filled with what I now recognize as acid, headed directly at my face. The storm had taken me and I had drowned, and the sharks ruling the sea had feasted on my flesh, and what of me remained didn't want to come back. My eyes were clamped shut, but it didn't help - I could feel it scorch its way into my skin, seeping into my flesh, my eyes. My voice tore through limits I though I couldn't cross, and it was as if the fire was travelling through my veins. I could smell my flesh burning, my eyes were torched, and my voice continued breaking through the alleyway as the sun fell. I didn't think the sun would rise