Texture of Memory

Born yesterday, we wide-eyed children excitedly open the Gift called Life, examining contents of our treasure chest. After years, long trains of obligations derail thoughts of independence. Routine over happiness is impressed deep on our psyche till we feel the relief of not knowing, and we're branded something not quite our own: we feel forced to accept whatever dealt us, often gambling with crappy hands while Lordly Life gesticulate with unchained arms, laughing mightily above us. One key grants us escape: magical mechanism offering a way out of this trap, locked safely out of reach, carved into recesses of mind. We visit this nostalgic land at will, brushing against texture of memory: tactile recollection mixed with recall of our most brilliant days - behind us - keepsakes on vivid lid of inner eye, times to be relived only through retrospective lens. -text by Natural Disaster