Imprints

For the last few days I have been wondering about what sort of imprints we leave on the world. Are these imprints lasting and do they represent us accordingly? Now, I'm not talking about the large gestures or the records amounting to our existence, but rather the more subtle ones.

Of course there are the obvious ones that relate to dental records, movie tickets, school attendance and bank accounts. But how do such things represent a person? How can you characterize a human being by there recorded existence? The answer is simple - you can't.

The subtle reminders of someone’s existence are what imprint the world more than any hard factual report. When a person dies we do not hold onto their bank account records as a form of comfort, rather, we treasure their favourite tea cup and hold silly non-consequential things close. How many lost items of mine are floating around in the world, holding my scent or the memory of it belonging to me?

I have lost countless Handbags, purses, wallets, watches and ear-rings each holding their own story relating to me, coasting along in the world with a specific story. When i was younger I cost my parents thousands in teddy-bear replacements. Casting back and wondering where one of my lost jerseys landed – in a township, a junk shop, or simply someone’s closet? It is with this notion in mind that I often find myself wondering into second hand stores, whether it’s for books, clothing or furniture, I find myself picking and choosing pieces that I imagine to have more than a surface story to it. Where do these items come from? Why has it ended up here? Are they broke or was it just lost? Why wouldn’t they need this anymore? Is the person still alive? These items are fragments of a larger story, and through them, there is some form of a reminder of that person left on the world. It is through these simplistic material items of mine, floating around in the world that I leave a type of mark on it. And furthermore, it is slightly consoling to know that if my house (with all my worldly possessions), burnt down tomorrow, there are still pieces of me, floating around in the world.

Flipping through my parent’s photo-albums, I found myself looking not at photos of them, but rather at the photos of the strangers that they encountered at different parties and events. How many photos of random people were in their album? And how many people across the globe had random photos of me, either in passing or from an event or party? Would I be shelved in someone’s photo album I hardly know? Would their children one-day scrutinise my unfamiliar face? And then, to look at it even further, how many ‘holiday-makers’ or tourists’ photo’s am I in, oblivious in the background, part of the scenery? These seemingly random photos floating around the world, are another example of how we imprint upon the world without even intending to.

This brings me to the conclusion that one can never be erased from the world, and although we may never be the next Dickens or Dahl, it is almost comforting to know that somewhere in the future, in some seemingly distant part of the world, there will be a photo of me in someone’s album I don’t know. In this way, I am reminded that my imprint upon the world is not an isolated one, but rather one that will spread across the globe despite the lack of grand gestures and the creating of masterpieces. These imprints, I believe, are more lasting than any blog or facebook page. They hold a specific story that cannot be repeated through technology. The very fact that they are materialistic, makes the imprint that much more tangible.