literature

The Wisps of Memory

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TheVioletSunflower's avatar
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Literature Text

We are surrounded by wisps of memory. It lives in abandoned toys, in boarded-up buildings, and in out-of print magazines. Each seemingly unimportant item left behind by the passing of time is a small piece of life. Each item meant something to somebody once. Each was dearly loved. Each tells a long-forgotten story. Often, we ignore these things and go on our way, but sometimes, something as seemingly unimportant as a photograph will cause us to suddenly stop and re-evaluate everything. These things we pick up. We hold them. We put them somewhere safe and make them ours. For some unknown reason, they have touched us, and their stories become entwined with our own

Perhaps one of the reasons we are so drawn to old pictures is the questions they raise. Who are these people? What are they thinking? Why was the picture taken? How did their portrait come to be in a place where I happened to find it? I often find myself hoping I never find the answers to these questions. If the person in the photograph remains nameless, their anonymity makes them simultaneously nobody and everybody. They are, in a way, a symbol for all of humanity; a representation of the joy and the suffering of the entire species. Maybe the questions themselves are more important than their answers. Maybe asking questions of the pictures cause us to ask the same questions of others. Who are you? What are you thinking? Why are you here right now? What are the circumstances that brought us together? These questions remind us of the humanity of those around us.

Another reason we hold on to old photographs is the feeling of responsibility we get from them. The person in the picture may be long gone, but a part of them, in the form of the picture, has been entrusted to us. We are the defenders of the past. We prevent the subjects of the pictures from forever fading from memory. We hold the pictures in hope that in some way, the spirit of the people in the pictures may live on, forever shielded from death.

Old photographs remind us that we are not only surrounded by memory; we are ourselves only wisps of memory. Someday, there will be nothing left of us, except perhaps a faded dress, a broken doll or a handful of photographs. Perhaps these unimportant things, the things left by time, are the most important things of all. Perhaps we cling so desperately to pictures of others in the hope that someday, somebody else will cling to a picture of us. Old photographs give us hope that perhaps our wisp of memory will not blink out entirely. Perhaps we will only fade a bit.
Why do we love old pictures so much?
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