What things have we encountered in our life?
What do these things leave behind?
Shall it be the end of the time and bodies we occupy?
And…how do all of these above affect the way we approach and know ourselves?
Things don’t change, we do.
One day I dug out a pack of old family videos, discs of past decades technologies, from a box that has been untouched for years. I played the videos, looking at the laptop screen as if I was looking at life story of someone else, felt so far away.
Then I recall a quote, Nature loves to hide.
Is it that nature hides from us? Or is it that we misinterpret nature, as we’ve become such different people?
“…There is really no difference between memory and sight, fantasy and
...This weird conjunction of vision and memory subtly makes the history of “us”, as all that we see are slowly dying. And then, death goes beyond individuals. Something bigger also passed away, and became history that we left behind.
Gentle. Nostalgic. Psychedelic.
What cultivated us?
Technologies, consumption, morals, civilization, power...
Are we correctly educated? Are we healthy? Are we good and proper human beings?
Death in a cultural context seems more than the action of ending one’s
life, but abandoning social resposibilities, rejecting one’s value as
a living being, and a powerful gesture to pursue freedom at the same
What do we live for? Who do we live for? If we cannot choose our own birth, should death rather be the blessed day for memorial?
There are many things I thought I would be able to overcome once I get older, stronger, and more mature. But in fact, I don’t. I get better at pretending I can deal with those things after many years of practising, but in the very deep I am aware that those fears never vanish, as “fear” itself, is, indeed, what makes me “me”.
I go through a cycle of getting injured, recovering, and, preparing
for the next time to get injured. Many times I was told that I could
just not choose the hard way, but to go with what I feel comfortable
with, but every time I was convinced by myself to proceed forward,
even if that means I could never truly rest.
Many years later, that became almost an instinct to not stop, and that was probably when I started to become good at dealing with fears.
I lied to myself that it was the only way, so that it felt necessary, and almost like a sacred sacrifice for myself to endure those fears. I’ve killed a lot of different versions of myself throughout that journey, those who didn’t have the virtue of tolerance, and those who couldn’t make it till the end.
Have I become a different person then? A better person? What have I
gained? Do I like myself more? Do I enjoy my life more? …After such a
long way, can I finally see the end?
Or…is there an end?
Objects, Memories, Death, Us.
Joyce Shi / joyceshidesign.com / firstname.lastname@example.org