Camera Log 07 - Isabel's Trail: The First Picture

First it broke. Then it whispered.

Lisbon. Dusk creeping in, the kind that makes every shadow look like an opening 

 

I found another photo.

Not in the bag. Not with the others.
This one was hidden inside the Moleskine.

It’s the forest, dense, shadowed, quiet.
But the image is broken. A dark seam runs down the middle, like the picture split while it was forming.

No message on the frame. Just that tear and the sense of something left unfinished.

She wrote about it.
Called it her “primeira tentativa” — her first attempt.
The camera still had old film inside, a leftover from someone before her.
So the photo wasn’t really hers. Just residue. Same as mine.

She didn’t like the feeling it gave her.
“As árvores desfocadas, um rasgo escuro no meio. Não gostei da sensação.”
The trees out of focus, a dark tear down the middle. I didn’t like the feeling.

It split itself open and stayed silent.

She changed the film. Brand new. Then she went back, same place, same clearing.
“Voltei ao mesmo sítio. Não sei porquê. Algo em mim queria tentar outra vez.”
I went back to the same place. I don’t know why. Something in me wanted to try again.

The second attempt, clearer. Brighter. The trees almost seem to breathe.
And this time, the message came:

“Procura as alturas onde risos e memórias esquecidos pairam no ar.”
Seek the heights where forgotten laughter and memories float in the air.

She said the words appeared in her own handwriting, but she didn’t remember writing them.

Didn’t even have a pen with her. Or maybe she did, maybe she wrote it and the memory just dissolved.

“A letra é minha. Mas não me lembro. Tenho dormido mal. Sonhos confusos… A câmara parece… desperta agora.”
The handwriting is mine. But I don’t remember. I haven’t slept well. Confused dreams… The camera feels… awake now.

Sometimes I can’t believe this is my life now.
By day, I talk to people, run errands, do normal things.
And then I come home to this, to a camera that feels like it’s dreaming me instead.
Is any of this real? Am I dreaming?
I haven’t said a word to anyone, they’d think I’m losing my mind.
Me - the rational one, always looking for an explanation.
And here I am, lost in something I can’t explain.

I’ve been reading Isabel’s Moleskine. It’s a lot to digest.
When I start, it’s like losing time. Sometimes I spend the whole day circling a single line she wrote.
She was obsessed with spirals, circles, eyes: there are collages scattered through the pages, all staring back.
I’m posting everything in Isabel’s Archive as I go.
Trying to keep my sanity and keep working on my own projects. I still have to pay the bills.
So I update it when I can.

Something split in her forest. Something split in mine.
And the camera… it’s still awake.