Telomeres

Snapshots, a picture is worth a thousand words.

A life, moments stored in memory banks, shoe boxes in junk draws. I look at my little brother, four years of wonder to a world yet known.

That used to be me.

A picture is worth a thousand words for those with the vocabulary. Pictures beneath beds, stuck between nooks of now-and-what-used-to be.

Life, a breathing nostalgia — the chase for rewinds, You are no DJ pon de replay. Time, master manipulator: progress processing, hope… loading… we ignore the fading, the light that withers.

Memories are what we have, images coming undone at the edges. The world carries on in cycles, in similar snapshots we find ourselves. I look at my brother, on top of the — “YO! get down from there!”

The rebel laughs.

That used to be me. That still is me, somewhere underneath the peeling plastic.