It was an icy morning, one of those where you want to stay in bed until the sunlight bothers you so much that you can’t help but get up.
I looked around me, contemplating the framed photographs on my bedroom walls. There were maybe a hundred, or maybe more: I had lost count. They were all framed: white, black blue… made out of wood, brass, silver… in an effort to make each one unique, different from the rest. Each one of those photos was a memory, or at least had tried to be, a moment, an image of the present turned into the past in an instant.
I don’t know what to call it, maybe an obsession, but I had a need for it: to immortalise people, to keep their memory alive so that in time someone could see them and know what they had done. But it was only an illusion.It was an icy morning, one of those where you want to stay in bed until the sunlight bothers you so much that you can’t help but get up.
I looked around me, contemplating the framed photographs on my bedroom walls. There were maybe a hundred, or maybe more: I had lost count. They were all framed: white, black blue… made out of wood, brass, silver… in an effort to make each one unique, different from the rest. Each one of those photos was a memory, or at least had tried to be, a moment, an image of the present turned into the past in an instant.
I don’t know what to call it, maybe an obsession, but I had a need for it: to immortalise people, to keep their memory alive so that in time someone could see them and know what they had done. But it was only an illusion.

PUBLISHER: TEKTIME