(old) letters from France

I’ve been thinking a lot about France. Not just the food, but having these elaborate daydreams of shutting myself in a three room apartment, writing (most likely about shutting myself in a three room apartment in Paris and how romantic it can [or should] be) and photographing objects of memory. It can be something so simple as the smallest bit of peeling paint on the ceiling, but it’s peeling paint “in France”. I wish there was a way I could capture old, squeaky, wood floors in French apartments.

There are days, like today, where I feel like I want to stop time and live in the photos. I’m always looking to the next thing, one day ends faster than the next, and the only time it seems I get to really experience what I’ve seen is after the fact, in a photograph.

And there are other days, when I wish my eyes were cameras, and every time I blinked I took a photo. At the end of my life, I look at the hard drive in my head full of these subconscious memories, and it will feel like living a life all over again, but for the first time…