PASANG SURUT


IMAGE MAKING-CYANOTYPE HAND PRINT


 Going home, as I sat through the same route, I would sometimes find myself caught in a pocket of time where I would think back on how my days had been. I remember once, on my way home from what felt like a busy day, the rapidly changing scenes outside the train windows seemed to slow as the sky shifted colors. I wasn’t thinking about anything in particular. And yet, for some reason, that stretch of the ride remains vivid.

Some days, time feels dense, overlapping, fluctuating. Some weeks pass like a single extended day, some days remain etched in vivid detail, and others dissolve into a blur. Nothing seems to hold still for long. In the vaguest sense of words in thoughts, memories speak. I think the act of remembering is, in a way, a kind of composition shaped as much by who I am now as by what actually happened then. A single recollection resonates differently to me at different times taking on new emotional tones, shaping itself in response to a current state of being. They brush up against the images I carry within memories. In this way, memory feels more like a living process. And sometimes, it’s hard to tell where the present ends and the remembered begins.

This overlap of memory flowing, of emotion coloring experience reminds me that perception is never still. Like tides resurfacing, memories appear and fade, again and again.