A moment in time, life bottled, and kept in a vessel that speaks of death.
Devoid of emotion, of sound and taste and smell.
Only the hints of what was.
A smile, running feet, blooming lilacs.
But then the next image blinks on.
And another.
Music slowly draws in.
If you squint your eyes a little, it's almost as if the pictures are moving.
The children are running.
Flowers blow gently in the breeze.
The music fills you with a sense of what was.
Your mind begins to fill in the missing pieces,
and creates new memories, new stories
of what once was.
So what, then, is more real?
The memories of what was, or the imaginings of what could have been.
The memories of what was, or the imaginings of what could have been.
Does it even matter?
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