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  • Where do the photos that do not make it into scrapbooks go?

    Do the memories stop existing because we wish that they didn't; because we found something better to fill the pages with? The camera shakes when we laugh among friends, waiting again to compose yourself for the momentary story of one image. Mistakes are edited out, discarded, gone.

    A blur is a confusion in a world where crystals are expected in every cave. We judge diamonds by their clarity and give value to their refraction of light and not their reflection of love. Clear brews fill our bellies and blur our sight, lumps in our throat do not make it into records.

    We've come to accept that imperfection is the true perfection of humanity, yet expect our images to be as vivid or more so than our memories. We leave the contrast and color of our tales to machines and box them into rectangles; bright bait at the start of our lines leaving nothing to spin the reel.

    Dare we look back on the images that we do not share, recycle them into our memories and not rip them apart into bytes?

    The digital world is a place where errors happened but do not exist.
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