Another day spent in front of Lightroom, scanning, sorting and editing my old photographs. The process is so arduous it seems never-ending; it’s only the librarian-grade bookkeeping that reassures me I’m actually going to finish this task some day and that I’m indeed making progress.
It’s my way of facing the past. The story of the last three years of my life… I’ve never told it to anyone; at least not the whole of it. I think I’ve made more mistakes than I ever wanted in my life; caused more pain, confusion and tears than I’d ever wish upon anyone. It wasn’t like that all the time – but the joyous days, parties and summers were inevitably intertwined with episodes I’d wish I could save for myself… while at the same time I fucking wish I could just get it all out, in the blue, and lift this shameful emotional baggage off my shoulders once and for all.
Painstakingly tagging arranging the photos and folders in chronological order, a story starts to emerge. What has been a tangled mess is straightening up; periods that were a haze start to emerge in scraps, in snapshots often captured by strangers, snapped on mobile phones and long forgotten. People, places, situations, good and bad times… everything, captured on film, coming back to life a little bit every time I look at the recorded memories.
Perhaps this is why I’m carrying the camera with me all the time.