Dust

It's been almost two years that I touched my blog. Everything took priority over writing. But, today, I decided to blow the dust off it, just like I did off my shelf and came across a stack of photo albums. 

Leaving my work, I opened them, delicately turning photographs, thinking what value do the ordinary, similar, yet changed faces of people on a thick, glossy paper have? Nothing, maybe? 

But this thought makes me realize that the same paper captures motion without realising. And the still, won't ever change as the time comes to a halt. The scenes, the moment, the smiles, the happiness would remain the same as captured ; it will be forever.  The absence of motion captures the essence of motion by trapping it.The photographs speak volumes - they have layers of stories and memories, and to get to them, you delicately have to unfold each one of them, just like Mr. Frost's poems. As you go deeper into the memories, they start getting hazy because of the layers. (sorry for the reference from literature, haha) 

Honestly, I could neither discard nor let anyone else discard  these albums, even though they occupy the biggest shelf of the cupboard. Not only that,they are scattered all over my house. Sometimes, when I accidentally come across them while hunting for my stuff, the memories come back just like a gush of water. While I take them out, the photographs fall off the albums, just like the leaves fall off the branches in autumn - worn and torn. Bending to pick them up, I just sit on the floor with photographs scattered around me and a big stack of albums, right in front. These mere pieces of paper open up pain and happiness at the same time. I've grown attached to these photos and it feels like they have always been a part of me and I was always a part of the memories that they hold. Nostalgia envelopes me and I freeze. Each tear, rolling down my cheek takes refuge in my smile and fills me with a longing. I sit transfixed, amused at how quick time flies.

Attachment is strange. I have been known to hoard pictures, because I never had the courage to get away with them or delete them from my phone. Memories settle upon us like the dust settles upon the albums. No matter what time of the day it is, what mood it is, the feeling is always the same - I hear familiar voices, the carefree laughter, the screams, the cries, I smell the intimate smells ; all of it make me feel as if I am time - travelling. I start living in the memories I don't remember or have never been a part of - My dad's childhood, my grandparents' youth/adulthood, the first days of school, playing with the long lost toys, my photo shoots which my grandpa and aunt used to organize, being a water baby and playing in the baby tub, the picnics we all used to go for, the fountain ponytails and toothless grins, fun times with my baby brothers, sisters and cousins, birthday parties, forced photographs, and the list goes on endlessly.

I've heard stories that associate with these photographs and that's how I remember them. Sometimes, when we all meet, sit together and are in a mood, nostalgia takes over the atmosphere. There are so many anecdotes, different stories, various versions and myriad memories attached to that one photo, all of which come back with just a look at the photographs.

Staring at the faces, with tears glazing my eyes, I blink and a teardrop falls, leaving  a mark on the photo and inducing a stabbing pain. Unable to breathe, I struggle to let go of them ; I quickly wipe my tears before anyone barges into the room. Realizing that the memories were playing with my feelings, I shut the albums, organize them back into place and get ready to walk out, when this quote by Murakami comes to my mind :

"Memories warm you up from the inside. But they also tear you apart"