I remember sitting on the swing in our backyard when i was eight years old, thinking about how strange it was that i wouldn’t remember that exact moment in a few months. Eleven years later & perhaps the irony of it all is how clear that memory still is for me.
i think about it often not sitting on the swing but just the messiness of memories and how at any given time, we can exist in a thousand different places just by brushing up against other lives.
it’s a scary and beautiful thing, don’t you think? there are things we have said and done that are so easily forgotten, but somewhere, in some mind, they are remembered.
i wonder about all the things i am. how in some stories i may be the conflict and in others, the resolution. how i might be nothing more than the girl who ordered a flat white with one sugar but even still, i exist outside of this body and isn’t that incredible?
we are not just living , we are painting memories . how could we not feel alive?
Autumn 