It was a few weeks ago and it already feels like a myth. A soap bubble in time . Just as frail. Just as magical. Just as colorful. Almost shapeless. You just know it exists. As a thought? As a memory? Are photos proof enough, can they vouch for something that happened? Do they replace emotions? Can they? Or are they just little capsules, flasks we pour little memories into? DOES THE ABILITY TO ACCURATELY COMMEMORATE AN EVENT MATTER?!
Is that what Alzheimer is like? Having soap bubble memories with thinner skins? That pop the second you get too close and breath too hard, live too hard, live too long? Is our brain made of soap? Is imagination an ability to slip from one notion to the next? Are typos and freudian slips just soap bars leaping out of our hands?
Anyways. Here are photos of workspaces that no longer exist other than as soap bubbles, GORGEOUS soap bubbles in my mind. I will cherish them until they pop. And from now on, I will cherish all the memories I have forgotten that have already popped, I will dedicate a small sanctuary in the back of my head to them. A cemetery with shiny, slippery floors, from all the soap bubbles that popped. A lovely place, the loveliest of all cemeteries.
(also I Yuki Niino took all these photos, thank you Yuki)