Wednesday, July 04, 2012
It is an odd experience to visit your childhood places after decades: what you see is partly what you don't see. Landscapes fuse, footfalls echo, quick said the bird. And what do we really have but echoes of echoes of echoes - memories of memories, and neither are the places real that we visit nightly, and it is not us visiting. Yet, our waking selves are thoroughly shaped by these passed things and places. It is a strange, strange thing, this life in time, and we are strange people.