Fiction: Story behind the lens

While I was walking down the road of Athens, through the ancient Agora and on top of the Parthenon slope. I can’t get my mind off of the last few weeks when I was in Turkey war-torned.
The devastation of bomb, the children that’s crying on the cracked floor, blood drenched women holding on to man of her life, stream of tears wash her face gray with ashes.
To self contain my sanity; the only way I can get through this is to hold up my camera. Shut out every sound. What’s used to capture beauty now transformed to immortalize agony, sadness and pain.
Still my eyes flinch not. My heart keeps pounding, pumping blood of warm tears throughout my body. Every fiber of it, felt and ears and cry and scream and……… every dust is not missed, every light is save in the film, every pixel of the interlocking gunshot is stored, every flying rocks is stopped eternally, every faces, gray, red, blue, wet, dry, dumbfounded, is burned permanently into the little black box. And it is my shield, my armor, my only defends against all the arsenal.
Now, I’m safe sipping this horrible coffee that’s simply paradise in comparison. I wonder. Man. Where are we now?