Is life a series of still pictures; or is that the method with which our mind captures life?
When the wind is high, and the rain is falling, I feel more alive, as if the wind and rain are moving the pictures, and smudging the memories so they are not still. Even when the sun is up, life is dynamic as long as there’s something moving: people or animals! This movement of theirs becomes the wind through which particles of the past become alive.
Yet, when nothing is moving –not even me- besides the attempt of remembrance I realize with horror how still the past is. Rolling through it is almost like running a wheel with such a speed that I hope can fool me into seeing a smooth film on screen. A film that would not betray the missing pictures, or their inconsistency.
When life is still, too still, it is hard to see the memories, let alone make them.