My memories appear like a montage. Small frames of scenes only lasting a few seconds.

I travel on memories like stepping on stones that jut out of the river to get from one side to the other, to complete a larger reminisce.

Is the way I see memory different from someone else.

I remember like a photograph.

Younger memories are faded as a polaroid only in an artistic sense.

Strongest recurring memories are ones that I can smell as well.

The engine in an old fridge, the cork under under a metal cap.

Earliest memories are extreme close ups of faces, probably my parents.

I often still dream in extreme close up, that’s how strong my first memories are.

My memory is still potent, names, figures, what shocks me is the other gate I have to walk through.

In the past, did people remember in paintings and drawings, in spits of ochre.

Are memories more real and lasting if we don’t photograph them.

Tunneled in a lens, are memories lost for the observer, the cataloguer.

There were indigenous cultures that felt photography stole your soul, maybe photography steals your memories.

All I understand is this, I am remembering myself remembering it, and that in itself becomes a new memory