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How do you decide when something stops being a hobby and turns into a passion? Does somebody have to tell you? Do you have to have five people from different walks of life tell you you're a genius? Does it have to do something with feeling empty when you don't do it? Whether I'm a genius or not is questionable. The drums of fandom wither away with time. People forget. Those who don't - have a shuffled memory of its happening. I recently watched a video about AI in Photoshop and its use to resketch our memory. If you want someone out of your photo, you can write a prompt and draw a scalable dot and dashed box around their figure and BOOM! it's a new photo. Why do we take photographs? 

What is a photo? It is a mosaic stuck in time. How does a memory correspond to "fixes" to a photograph? Is our memory corrupt with sequences of code, is the visual poetry of the synapses dug into our new version of "What Really. I mean- Really Happened." Fixing memory. Fixing photographs. Fixing our idea of what life was like. To take a photograph is validate a moments existence in history. But taking a video and recontextualizing it with a different theme is etching a foreign canvas using memory as your tool. Your memory is as far as my vision of it goes the lengths to do.

I don't have many memories from last year. Nothing that immediately sticks out to me telling me this was a moment that I was truly happy. But the video of it denies me the pleasure of saying it. It says here. LOOK HERE! this is where you were happy. But it is a sadly happiness. A happiness in a moment denied, well-crafted piece of media. A memory that was created by me for myself, and for those who don't remember. Or those who don't wish to. 

A while back, my mother asked me why the music in my videography have somber overtones. I think a future version of myself would know exactly why I chose those bits of music. The real essence being that those were the moments I might've been happy but I don't remember them, these pieces of media are for a time that will never return. My college years. The years that happened to me. However irresistible it is, to say that these aren't true memories. I can't make that confession. It changes our perception of our time. 

This is why the pieces I chose are somber. So our future selves remember, these are the days that must happen to you. But further come the days that shall keep happening. You just have to keep your eye out for them.