Its been years since I’ve felt melancholy, neither am I at this moment, yet watching empty trees on a lost highway hints of its memory and seems to linger inside my mind, like the humidity in this cold winter's air.
These photographs are like the ink stains on paper washed out by tears. Words that I can no longer read, lost to the what was. So many sensations back flashes fragments of mirrors rush through my head as these trees quickly pass me by. I feel no warmth as everything blanketed in fog and blurred by the condensation of my breath on the car window.
Fragments of childhood memories such as the modern paintings of minimal masters hanging proudly on my mother's wall , ink stains on my father's paper, as he paints and draws his elegant swimming Koi’s, Moments i've found reading painful beautiful poems written on the diary of a lost friend making these tears fell upon her phrases and rhymes blotting its pages.
These trees are my inkblots of memory, for as I speed past them, I read a chapter of my story.
wondering in between the lines of branches and shades of grey.