In my room I have a shrine to the truth. It is difficult to find things to place upon it these days, so most of the shrine consists of relics of the past. There is a stack of polaroids – a collection of memories that I have been recording since I was a child. The oldest ones tend to stay on the top because they are the ones that I want to sift through the most – the days when the truth seemed possible, achievable. Something that could actually be attained and grabbed and held on to and examined. But I often find myself looking at these images and not recognizing the people in them – I would say they were not real but the weight of them in my hand, the resistance of the paper as I try to rip them, crush them, tells me otherwise. There is also a boxtop lid on the shrine, where I keep... (continua)