We are all locked into our own reality.
As the years spin by out of control, each reality is replaced by a fresh set of instances. Comprised of senses that besiege us, each plot of frozen space tells its own story. who we are, what we see, events, tragedies, loves, betrayals… all call out for a sense of permanence. That they have a claim on our passing. They will hold us here. Now.
By virtue of their proximity, it is their right. Yet, regardless – possibly as a result of – their tenacity, their hold on slips, and we find ourselves in a new reality. How did we get here?
Over the years we manage to collect the detritus that of passing realities. As much as we would like to lay claim to those tangible circumstances – carry them with us to the grave, they lapse into a fog. all that remains is memory. Untrustworthy. Fickle.
Yet somehow we manage to carry evidence of our past. Words, images, thoughts, remembrances. The tangible and the intangible. Things we can touch, see, feel. Was that love? I have a letter…
This is a collection of mileposts. Interpretations of thoughts, events, feelings. Hopefully frozen into proper relics of times gone by. Or hopes of realities yet to come.