I am permanent yet unstable. My contents are fixed in time but easily lost in the past. Stories forgotten and retold, memories recalled over and over until they change altogether from their original. Like a scan; ripped, rendered and degraded, each attempt to preserve is another layer lost. A paradox worth celebrating.
Am I stuck in the past? As I attempt to reorder myself, make sense of all that has come before me, I am aware of the uncertainty of the present. Is my heritage merely a comfort? It is human nature to desire to find our place in time and history; if we lock away the past in air conditioned walls for the purpose of conservation, do we not forget what is inside? Now is the time to look back, open the boxes and expose what's inside to the elements, in order to find a way to navigate forward.