Memory is questionable. We remember an incident in the manner in which we experienced it, whilst others may remember the incident differently according to their own experience. Any sort of objective conclusion on what really happened, who said what, who went where, is utterly impossible, yet mildly relieving. I myself am very bad at keeping my life journaled, and if you asked me where I was on a certain date in history or what I was doing, I wouldn't know how to answer those questions. My personal history is strange one, and my relations to my ancestors and lineages remains elusively mysterious to my knowing. I look to my father, who lived this world without my presence, who left this world without my knowing. I look to my grandfather in his final stages of life and I see so much of myself in him, and so much of him in me, yet, our barriers in language, and his inability to speak, prevents me from knowing anything about him altogether. Yet at this point in my life, I feel blissfully liberated from the past, however I still acknowledge and honor its passing. I see a different person, a different life, and a completely different world when I look at some of these images. My photos are the only recollection of my personal history I have left, but I leave you to piece together the narrative in your own imagination.