The city of Miami is where I found my first love... but sometimes I wonder if it was even real. My memories of him are so distant and intangible. I think I have subconsciously separated my memory of him from my idea of my beloved Miami, in order to prevent my heart from constant agony. All photos, keepsakes, gifts, videos and tangible interactions have been destroyed for years; any inkling of our memory resides in my mind and is slowly fading. This theatrical nonsense is so surreal. I recreate memories and
manipulate them at my leisure. I have lost the consciousness of truth within my theater of memory. I question whether he
ever even existed at all. And if he did, were we truly in love?
In “The
Work of Art in Mechanical Reproduction” Walter Benjamin explains the loss of
“aura” as a result of the reproduction of works of art. “Even the most perfect
reproduction of a work of art is lacking in one element: its presence in time
and space, its unique existence at the place where it happens to be.”
Love is a
work of art.
As I
continuously try to recreate memories of him
while simultaneously trying to block them out, all magic and beauty of LOVE
is lost. We no longer share the all-powerful aura of love. The electricity that
once wired itself through the veins of him and I is no longer in circuit. My "perfect" reproduction of our love is lacking in one element: its presence in time and space, its unique existence at the place where it happens to be.
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