PHOTOSTORY: Edition 1

NOTE: THIS STORY IS BASED ON THE FEATURED IMAGE AT THE VERY TOP OF THE PAGE

If you think hard enough, everything has a memory attached to it. A tube of tea tree oil given by a past lover. A pair of diamond earrings gifted by a grandmother long gone. A limited edition Starbucks cup bought at a first long-distance holiday.

But you never stop long enough to think. You think you do not have time. That may be so; sixty-five years, a century, thirty days, no one should ever know.


The brown work desk was neat, apart from the accidental littering of a post-it note reminding him to pick up the laundry from the dry cleaner’s. It didn’t matter, because he had forgotten all about it anyway.

It was 8.57am. He was a freelance graphic designer; choosing to work from home with an iMac he had saved up hard for over cramped cubicle spaces in pressed shirts and ugly Christmas ties. He was the kind of man who would go days without proper meals when working on a big project. It was this endless pursuit towards perfection that his family, while they were alive at least, always said would ruin him.

9.01am. His iMac would not boot up. The blank screen stared back at him, a mirror of his own haggardness. He swore under his breath and tried to reach for his cup to take a mouthful of last night’s coffee. But the lack of sleep had disoriented him and his hands did not quite go the way he intended. The cup bounced off the table and landed on the parquet floor, shattering into pieces.


Maybe memories are stored within the physical object itself. Each time you see or touch it; a small bit escapes into you and lets you remember what had happened then.

But if you accidentally break it; shattered, ripped, thrown away, whatever it may be; the memory escapes into the atmospheres and nothing is left. 

That’s why even when you try to fix the object, it never does quite feel the same again. 


He grabbed some loose sheets of paper on his desk and tried to mop up the coffee spillage. It was good coffee, he thought to himself; good coffee that had retained its Arabica aroma even after being left overnight.

And so the little room was momentarily filled with the aromas of the coffee, mixing with the staleness that permeates rooms with unopened windows and closed doors. As pleasant the aroma was, it was gone after a couple of hours; escaping through tiny cracks of the seemingly sealed windows and the little gap at the base of the door.


featured image credit
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