Edgy me.

[En] Memory vlog

A slow pace, a slow mind. As usual, at least when this happened, moving slowly and carefully, letting the ticks of a keyboard louder than a breath. Staying in a coat, in an inbetween, on the kitchen couch- not about to work, not about to go.
The legs are warm and so rooted, even if a faint swarming is felt, nothing will fundamentally move. The eyes are slow, the blinks take full seconds to happen.
Going out at night to walk was a good thing. Coming back was another journey. Unexpectedly watching a video from another era, though... Was a change of plan in the change of plans.

The video was so good to have. The video filled a place that had since been filled with newer, more exciting things, but the video was its own.
This curious vlog was short and not a word was spoken. We barely know the face of the man behind it. Although, sometimes, a word appears on the screen, either captured in the hazards of city titles or added as a simplest emphasis.
Sometimes, we hear a voice we know.
This vlog was slow. Not much was happening, actually. Notice how everything in life is full of movement? Even in a long note, the emotion keeps growing, even in still art, we are constantly analyzing.
But this video was slow. Still shots, for seconds. This video was not long, but it was perfect.
It began with humble presentations, as if the man himself knew we wouldn't have reckognized him, or maybe it is because he is fairly new; he puts a very simple link between the vlog's content : this is what happened in september. Just a little etiquette, in the top left corner, indicates the month where he filmed moments, not as a teen would do, but as a photographer would, trying to catch something so there is something left of the past. These don't feel like a vlog, but like a memory movie, something private that he meant to share with the friends that are in it, but... also for us. It's not like we are a person. If he doesn't talk, we won't either. It's not hidden, just... Not for masses.

We don't always get the clearer view, voices are not there to be listened to, as if he is capturing the ambiance or it's elements, rather than whatever action. After all, he does not have a goal : this is just things that have happened in the past month.

And the lack of goal, the slow, terribly unmoving pacing, the faint voices that feel like a cartrip sleep, all of this gets someone back to a phase they didn't even remember.
You can remember the toys, the bullies, the musics; but can you remember the timing, the boredom, the drowsiness?

Those are things from another age.