The Photojournalist

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Next to the dead man sat a child. His tears, framed in a photograph, gave life to the mysterious realization of death–that is–it’s always close.

The next frame showed a man with a knife on another man’s throat. His bloodlust reflected in the blade and the fear in the victim’s wide, horrified eyes.

The final frame was that of a child, crouched over and whose belly was bloated. His desperate agony was untold until now. But the hunger still remains.

As the Photojournalist looked at his photographs, he understood why he shot them originally. However, he lost his sense of purpose when he had won the Pulitzer prize for the last photo. The letters he had received were as numerous as they were hateful. Why didn’t you help this child? Why didn’t you help this man?

‘But I did’ he would whisper to himself on those lonely nights when he would lie awake for fear of dreams of headless bodies and unfathomable violence. ‘I did what I could’ he whispered. ‘I wanted to show the world.’

Anger and depression can be interchangeable things, and when there is no understanding anymore it just becomes another burden. So the Photojournalist thinks as he puts the gun to his head.

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