31 Jan
Memories. I re-live because of them, I live for them, I learn from them, I thrive in them. My life revolves around them. They’re my means to an end more often than I care to admit. They’re my bookmarks – colourful, personalized and with different messages that open up to pages of my book – which I go back and forth to. They’re an oscillation that’s amazingly dizzying; the only encyclopedia I care to refer to and know at the back if my hand; the only journal that’s really truly mine no matter who features in it.

I’ve always found myself going back to photographs. There’s something about photographs that makes me connect, that takes me to a place that’s only mine – whether it’s a revisit or not. I associate with them. I love gazing at photographs, they take me to memories I’ve created – like resplendent keys that magically open doors that sometimes lay hidden, forgotten. 

It’s the same with music. I realized today, that the only thing I perhaps connect with at so many levels, is music. It gives me a high like nothing else can, it let’s me hover around places I want to and then takes me away when it’s the right time to. It also catches me off-guard, like old tissue-paper notes I probably kept safely away. The creases, sinews and crinkles remain as words and messages from another time lay embedded within. It’s warm. It’s the only thing that lets me go. And if you’ve spent enough time with me, you’d know I’m not really around when I’m tuned in – paradoxical, yet true. 

And somewhere, the three of them – music, photographs and memories – interconnect, meet and have grown to hang out with each other. Therefore I find myself living to create memories. Every experience I have has got to be memorable, and effortlessly so. The weaves of friends, family, experiences, growing up and my own self blend in to make them so vibrant, so distinct, so mine. Which is perhaps why I fall back so much on them.

At the end of the day, that’s what everything boils down to – memories. And what we have are marvelously stacked racks of memoirs; encyclopedias that are bursting at their seams with pictures, music and bookmarks of all shapes, colours and sizes; bookmarks that even age and time can’t weather.


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