a photo book

Memory book

It was never the clutter of objects,

That we were meant to treasure.

I’m walking down a mushy path towards a building. Everything looks grey and cloudy. It seems like it has been raining for days and the rain has just taken a respite. Entering the building, i realize it is not a building at all but more like a house. I start walking up the stairs. Everything feels oddly familiar, but not quite. There are pictures on the walls. Pictures of young people, dogs, pictures of an old couple, pictures of me. I want to know more about the person who looks like me but doesn’t feel like me.

I enter the musty room right in front of me. Everything looks moss bitten, like the people living here are not able to maintain it somehow. Or should i say were? Instinctively I open the sole wooden wadrobe to the right of the square window and reach for a fat leather bound book kept at the bottom. I purposefully take it downstairs and settle into this pink plush chair beside the window. The chair seems like a new addition to the old decor.

Opening the book, I see unfamiliar faces with my own and I wonder are they really familiar or is this some sort of deja vu or more like deja savoir. I see that the the same house seems new in the pictures. There’s a well maintained garden. There are pictures of me gardening, there are dogs in the background, pictures of me baking, pictures of parties. I look content, so happy. 

There’s a picture of an mid-aged couple, the woman looks like me, it must be me, with another man. He looks famliar and then just a few secondsin, the moment is gone and the unfamiliarity sets in. He is in many pictures but I don’t know who is he. 

I shut the book and get out of the chair. There is a mirror on the wall and I get a glimpse of a reflection, an old, frail reflection. I was looking at myself and before that could sink in, I woke up. No, not with a thud, just woke up like that is all I was meant to see.

Yes, that was a dream. My day started with such an occult feel to it (if that is even possible.) I started by reflecting upon the obvious questions, what was the point of the dream, why did I get such a dream, so on and so forth. But my mind later travelled to something more relevant- the scrap book of memories. I saw all the things that i would like to see in my future. There were pets, there was nature, the much needed isolation, there were friends, there was everything that I would ever want from life. But I wonder where did the city girl go? Or was that more of an old age abode? 

Don’t get me wrong, I do not consider my dream to be a message from the universe or to be more than a mere dream. I’m just giving in to whirlwind of thoughts it raised in my feeble mind. I loved what I saw in those few seconds. I hope my memory book looks closer to the one I saw in the dream (however hazy it might seem.) It seemed like a pictorial documentation of my entire life with my favorite moments highlighted in my own way. 

Would you invest your time and efforts in making a memory book? Would you like to step into the world of reminisce by merely turning a page of a book? Do you ever wonder what would be the contents of it? 


Would it all be a mere shout in the void?


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