Written in my face. I rarely read or try to write my face. Each line a sign of age. Ageing. A trace, and a trail. Along the way. A photograph may show, but cannot tell. Some words may tell but only seem to allude to experience.
These things I've been sorting through over the last few weeks, each thing a curious mix of known and having known. Each thing alludes to a feeling and a memory, this holding on, the elusive trails and traces of life.
Layers and layers of memory, bits and pieces, held for a moment, alluding to being.
To sit for a while and contemplate these things made and re-made, to make again. These recollections.