Aftersun ★★★★½

adults make you promise to tell them everything and leave you in the dark. maybe it’s their way of allowing you to learn for yourself; to figure things out before they share their own memories with you. it’s only when i have shared something sacred with my parents as an adult that they have shared something significant in return. maybe it’s a required invitation, or maybe it’s what finally jolts a memory. so what happens when in a way, you are always a child in the dark, trying to find your parent in a crowded room? what if nothing is ever explained to you — if you don’t have the chance to explain yourself? what was it the motifs on the rug beneath your feet represented that made it worth coming back to? was it always the plan for it to belong to you? to remember? 

aftersun feels both complete and fragmented. like two people recalling the same memory. it’s never overly shiny or nostalgic. there are bits that have washed away over time, and other bits that have been scrubbed over & over to try to bring them back into focus. like cleaning toothpaste off a mirror. we can’t be everywhere & we can’t remember every detail. sometimes, we are forced to split into two people: ourselves and the person behind the camera, in order to see truthfully. maybe retelling & creating is the closest we get to telling someone everything. and the closest we get to seeing someone fully.

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