A friend gave me this old album of her family. It touches me that she wanted to throw it away a long time ago. Because the people in the photos have no meaning for her, she says. But she hasn’t had the heart to do it yet. Doesn’t this prove that all our efforts for a little immortality are in vain?
Now I hold it in my hands and wonder, if someone could tell the stories of these people, would these memories be true? They would be remembered stories or told memories of stories of memories….
Science has taught us that the subconscious manipulates memory to make it useful to us. But if memory is distorted more and more from person to person, what comes out in the end? Would these stories therefore only be uncontrollable mirages of an inner archaic power?