In the dimly lit, smoke-filled parlour of my aunt's old house, the couch sat like a behemoth, a relic of a bygone era. Its worn upholstery seemed to whisper secrets of a thousand mid-century afternoons, spent in quiet desperation. And so, I set out to deconstruct this behemoth, to peel away the layers of familiarity that had built up around it, like the peeling of a worn, pinkish-orange skin.
As I set my hands to work, I began to see the couch as a palimpsest, a manuscript of memories, each thread and fibre telling a story of love, loss, and lazy Sundays. The worn armrests, once soft and inviting, now seemed like the worn pages of a well-loved book, dog-eared and creased from countless readings.
Fragments of Memory Phantoms of Familiarity