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Description
He never speaks, he never moves, he only watches.
I see him sometimes, far in the distance; a brief glimpse from the blur of my periphery. When I turn to face him he vanishes, like a bird startled into flight by a pair of approaching headlights. He’s following me. Even if I can’t see him, I’m sure he’s there. I can always feel him there.
His objective is unclear; as of yet he has done little more than observe. Perhaps he is studying me; who can say. Maybe I’m not the only one he watches.
I’m wary that his intentions might not be as peaceful as mere observation; he could very well be waiting for an opportunity to pounce. Surely he knows that his mere presence has already begun to take its toll on my sanity; For I fear there is something malicious lurking beneath his guise of docility.
From what little visual stimuli I have been able to gather of my follower, I've noticed that he conceals his face behind an antique, large format camera. A darkcloth is attached to the rear of the camera, and it hangs over his curled back; obscuring his silhouette. Two wooden stands protrude from the base of the camera, and he clutches them tightly; presumably for balance. As a matter of fact; it almost looks as if the camera isn't a separate object at all, but is instead a part of him. As if it has somehow bled into his body and intermingled with his flesh; the same way water intermingles with ink on a sheet of paper.
Sometimes I’ll hear a click, or see a flash, and I’ll know it’s him. He’s photographing me; stealing snapshots of my day to day, documenting my existence, and my descent.
Once I managed to catch a glimpse of him as he closed the shutter and blinked his light at me. I saw as the light reflected through the barrel of the lens, revealing briefly what lay behind it; an eye, perhaps.
I am unsure as to whether or not he is real; I suppose it is quite possible that he is simply a figment of either my troubled imagination, or my swiftly declining mental state. If he is a fiction however, it begs this question; is the Cameraman truly the cause of my failing sanity, or is he merely the symptom?

Description
He never speaks, he never moves, he only watches.
I see him sometimes, far in the distance; a brief glimpse from the blur of my periphery. When I turn to face him he vanishes, like a bird startled into flight by a pair of approaching headlights. He’s following me. Even if I can’t see him, I’m sure he’s there. I can always feel him there.
His objective is unclear; as of yet he has done little more than observe. Perhaps he is studying me; who can say. Maybe I’m not the only one he watches.
I’m wary that his intentions might not be as peaceful as mere observation; he could very well be waiting for an opportunity to pounce. Surely he knows that his mere presence has already begun to take its toll on my sanity; For I fear there is something malicious lurking beneath his guise of docility.
From what little visual stimuli I have been able to gather of my follower, I've noticed that he conceals his face behind an antique, large format camera. A darkcloth is attached to the rear of the camera, and it hangs over his curled back; obscuring his silhouette. Two wooden stands protrude from the base of the camera, and he clutches them tightly; presumably for balance. As a matter of fact; it almost looks as if the camera isn't a separate object at all, but is instead a part of him. As if it has somehow bled into his body and intermingled with his flesh; the same way water intermingles with ink on a sheet of paper.
Sometimes I’ll hear a click, or see a flash, and I’ll know it’s him. He’s photographing me; stealing snapshots of my day to day, documenting my existence, and my descent.
Once I managed to catch a glimpse of him as he closed the shutter and blinked his light at me. I saw as the light reflected through the barrel of the lens, revealing briefly what lay behind it; an eye, perhaps.
I am unsure as to whether or not he is real; I suppose it is quite possible that he is simply a figment of either my troubled imagination, or my swiftly declining mental state. If he is a fiction however, it begs this question; is the Cameraman truly the cause of my failing sanity, or is he merely the symptom?