She calls herself self-conscious because she does not consider herself artistic, not an artist even. And she calls herself an artist because what else can she call these words and images that she forms, takes, thinks, sees, hears, and feels as beautiful other than art?

And so when she put her camera on timer one late afternoon (the room shadowy and lit up only by LCD screens) and the picture ended up blurred and grainy, she was satisfied. For two reasons: one, she’s self-conscious, and two, she thought that the idea was beautiful.

She liked that blurred pictures seem like frozen moments in a work of art, frozen in an eternally unfinished point in time, and she’s left to wonder, is there more to it? Often times, she would ask that to herself, then she would definitely resign herself from trying to be an artist. There were no losses, no failed attempts, if she does not have an obligation as one. So she just kept on forming, taking, thinking, seeing, hearing, and feeling all the things beautiful to her, to keep her inexplicably satisfied.