SEPIA TINTED KODAK MOMENTS.

As I leaf through my family album, memories begin to flood through me as inexorably as a tide, they caress me and I melt inside. I can’t help it, fragments half remembered takes me back into the past, and flashes of images and times interweave themselves across my mind. Each picture represents some kind of transmission from the dead, and their blurriness and graininess assist in giving them the air of nineteenth-century spirit photos. It is an intensely personal collection, almost like a tour of my past roots and adolescent life and times, but it isn’t idle. There aren’t many photographs of my father as he never attended much of our family functions. In the flickering twilight of my life, I can visualize my father, and the ghost of his smell, lingers in the empty room. I wish I could feel his strong hands lift me again high above this cruel world. I gaze at the other photographs especially my mother’s with her serene beauty and I obtain something from each of them. By looking at their photos even when they are no more it seems as if they are leaving behind a tiny spark, someday somewhere down the line the young generation will pick up the trace, she did so much for me and my siblings long ago after all. Sadness unlike sensation remains for a long time – the life and death struggle in this material world becomes real and I wonder what it does besides inflicting pain and sorrow.-Vinu-