this is a random picture I found and picked up arbitrarily on the streets of Cuenca, Ecuador during my walk to school. It was severely crumpled. There were pen marks and tears all over. Obviously someone's trash, someone's angry trash. I say this because I own(ed) many pictures such as this one. They're the pictures you simply can't look at without feeling a deep sense of melancholy and regret. You're sad and mad because you were so small, you couldn't remember if there were ever any good times, even if you tried, even if the picture shows it. You're sad and mad because you know that in this picture, just a moment after, something terrible had happened. It's the picture you get angry at. You think that they're the ones that lie. Never, the situation, the memory, the moment, the subjects. It's the picture. So we scribble, and tear, and crumple, and burn, thinking that the pain will disappear, and we wonder and brood over why when it doesn't.
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