When I was a teenager, I couldn’t grasp the world. I didn’t understand it. Before I knew it, I was in society. I couldn’t do what ordinary people could do. I didn’t even know what I couldn’t do. I thought I was right and everyone else was a fool. I’m different from others. Superior. I believed it then. I believe it now.

At 23, in a casual conversation, I said, “I love beautiful things.” Someone replied, “Then why don’t you become a photographer?” I heard the calling. At 23, I touched a camera for the first time.

Mostly, I photographed sex workers. Manual focus. I brought their eyes into focus. I tried to capture what was pure in them. I hate dishonest photographs.

Before I knew it, a deep hole opened in my chest. From that hole, a signal comes.

“Shoot.” “I shoot.” “Shoot.” “I shoot.” “Shoot.” “I shoot.” “Shoot.” “I shoot.”

I was sealed off from the world. I carried heavy baggage and walked. Walking was all I could do. The signal comes. “Shoot.” Photography was the only thing holding me to the world.

The hole kept growing. I lost what truly mattered. I threw it away myself. I buried the camera in the closet.

That night, it was raining. Thunder, too. I was in a dark, deep darkness. I wanted to die, but didn’t have the courage. A man not worth being alive.

My phone lit up. I heard the calling.

Photography saved me.

This year, I turn 50. The hole is still there. I thought it was gone. It’s still there. Good.

Today, too, the signal comes. “Shoot.”