Memory is flawed. Photographs are flat. Archives are a gimmick. I am here. This is what I see. this is the proof of my existence. this is the proof that I love and am loved.

I enter the house where my father grew up. I am inside and outside. Inside my memory of how this tv room used to look but outside any sense of nostalgia. Here is where my grandmother used to paint and here is now an empty room. Here is the master bedroom I entered only after she died and here is the dressing area where she would have seen herself reflected. Now I am in the mirror. I don’t belong here.

I take a walk and look at the ground. Death, decay, old life, new life. I carry my family history in every cell of my body. Simultaneous preservation and degradation. Photographs become relics. The deceased become icons. In the end, all will lapse into oblivion. 

I am not in my body right now but my eyes and the camera are one.