Pierd lucruri tot timpul

I lose things constantly. Not just keys or scarves or unfinished thoughts, but whole moments. Ends of conversations. People. They vanish before I can press them between the pages of my mind. Some mornings, I wake up with the distinct feeling that I have misplaced an entire lifetime. Maybe it’s under the bed. Maybe it dissolved in the shower drain. Maybe someone else is living it now, thinking it belongs to them.

I try to keep track. I write down sentences that lead nowhere. I take photos of things I don’t understand. A door slightly open. A coffee cup left behind. A stranger looking over their shoulder. Fragments, scattered like breadcrumbs. Proof that I was here, that I existed inside a moment before it collapsed into the next.

But the images pile up. They become ghosts of things I can’t quite name. I scroll through them, searching for the lost thing, the missing piece, the reason I started taking them in the first place. I want to believe they mean something. That a door is never just a door. That a shadow is never just an absence of light. That all these frames hold a language I have forgotten how to speak.

I piece them together, forcing connections where there are none. A hand reaching. A city dissolving into rain. A mouth caught between words. I try to make them belong to each other, to me.

Somewhere, a man is looking for his glasses while they rest on top of his head. Somewhere, a child is crying for a toy she already holds in her hands. Somewhere, someone is whispering ‘I miss you’ to a person they have not lost yet.

We are all losing something. And finding it. And losing it again.

So I take these lost images and press them into a sequence, hoping they will speak. I let them blur together, their edges softening, their meaning stretching. They breathe. They become something new. Maybe a memory. Maybe a dream.

Or maybe just proof that once, for a fraction of a second, these things existed.

Maybe that’s enough. Maybe that’s everything.

🩶