It Remembers
It remembers.
The night facing the piano.
The pen on my wrist.
The tear on my face.
It remembers.
The room full of lights.
The sorrow in February.
The snow outside the window.
It remembers.
The smell of a cigarette.
The sound of a motorbike.
The terrace bathed in moonlight.
It remembers.
The green outside the house.
The quietness in the air.
The secrets in my heart.
It is empty.
It is full.
It forgets.
It remembers.
Moving is the key melody of my life—from apartments to apartments, cities to cities, countries to countries. Now that I’ve grown, the feeling of being displaced from home has taken over the excitement and curiosity of moving to a new place. On countless nostalgic nights, I think of the vase sitting on my piano that accompanied me for thousands of sleepless nights of practicing.
The 3-D printed objects, though generic in form, are recreations of a significant bottle from each of my homes. They are personal symbols of home, containers of my past, and portable self-portraits. I left, yet they remained still. The lights inside the vases light up my way home, while the images are reminiscent of places beloved by me.
