Ancient but still unfading memories.
Memories of how it used to be.
Memories of what I used to be.
Memories of those who used to stand around me.
Coincidence? or intention?
When certain images are full of color, full of rich moments.
While some moments, some colors were left out.
Not engraved in the deepest parchment.
Pulsating with living texture.
Images where the young creature is the centre of the universe like the midday sun.
Images where the young creature is as bold as snowflakes in the middle of March.
Images where the not-so-young creature is determined to overcome any obstacle,
like a cold wave of the sea tide.
Images where the not-so-young creature is surrounded by pure enthusiasms like milk preserved under the shell of a coconut.
Memories of childhood, adolescence, defined adulthood.
Who I am. What I am.
What if all those past memories are not real?
What if all those images are not original?
What if all those present moments spent in the past were
just an escape into a corrupt world?
Where the main criminal is my own mind.
Using pretty packaging to hide the ugly truth.
How could I argue: I miss the good old days…
When maybe there were no good days.
Just days.
The old days.