Moments are mere moments in time. They do not mean more than that. They are just moments. Moments of frustration, moments of despair and then the moments of jubilation. They all last only a moment, hence a moment.
I stare out, a task I do often. Staring out of glass windows with thick iron bars from within. They be there not to let what be out in or to not let out what is within. A comfortable form of prison for an abstract painting, for a photographer in his obsession of clicking those desperate images of times that need be forgotten. Those moments, worthless, moments which are moments, mere moments of the past, of one forgotten.