Black and White

Someone I know sent me an old picture of his parents today, and I noticed, when I saw it, that I couldn’t recognize that the woman in it was his mother. Not until I was told who it was. And it made me realize that someday, someone might see a picture of me from right now and not recognize it at all. 

Time changes things, Zonk. And youth is fleeting. And it makes me sad to think that who I am right now will someday be just a memory confined to a black and white photograph.

Except that our photographs aren’t black and white anymore, unless we choose to instagram them that way.
I’m worried they won’t feel authentic in retrospect.

 

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Author: Kirtana K

I paint and make music and blog like a maniac. These days I try to run. But I have chicken legs and lungs the size of two-rupee balloons. I fail. I like pajamas and striped socks and books that read like song and songs that sound like poetry and strangers who read this page. And Maggi when I'm sick or cold or sad or celebrating. They'll find noodles in my veins if ever they cut me open. And potatoes. And maybe a tiny bit of whiskey. I'll be an Unidentified Living Object and they'll put my insides on display. It will be crazy. It will be awesome. It will.

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