We are our own photographers

We take fewer pictures of sunsets now,
fewer of gnarled branches and mountain ranges,  
we looked at the camera and told it  
to face us.  
  
It has not stopped taking our pictures since,  
at every turn and corner of our slow lives,  
at every groan of our fast roads, we smile,  
or do not.  
   
It is ear-to-ear or demure, we wear sardonic,  
or crook a brow, chests heavy, we stretch  
that arm when we love and feign love, we take
a selfie.  
   
We include every silly soul behind us,  
in parties, at work, when we wade into wakes.  
We insinuate ourselves into snapshots  
of sunsets.  
   
Our lives sear onto a form better than paper,  
fixed and unflinching, events cannot be changed  
by how others may remember them, or by our
faithlessness.  
   
We record, not for the curious among  
our kith and kin, we are photographers  
of our own photographs, fleshing out our
personae.  
   
We document the dull business of the day,  
and the squandering of the nighttime,  
our decline and decay, our bloating,  
our greying.  
   
Historians are euphoric, we are the generation  
most documented, we were here, indubitably,  
our diaries on the internet, floating
forever.