A family. A generation. A legacy.
Lost. Fragmented. Bits and pieces remain.
Come, let me tell you a story:
Hold it in your heart. Hold it in your soul.
Carry it over so others know.
Now nobody knows.
A whisper remains. A shadow is cast.
Struggling to hold on.
Yearning to let go.
A presence which is now a haunting memory.
Merely, collective memories.
Everyone has a story. Everyone has a history. Everyone is shaped by these experiences in one way, shape, or form. This is the now. That was the past. A collective memory. The majority of places where we, or our parents, or our grandparents immigrated from, stem from deeply rooted cultural roots. Some of us have completely let go. Some of us are burdened, a weight on our shoulders to complete or fulfill long lost dreams that did not belong to us, but were inherited through time. Some of us may find others living vicariously through us. Some of us come from war-torn areas where deeply rooted religious ideologies have oppressed our choices and freedom. Some of us live under the shadow of hypocrisy. And some of us fight it to display the ugly truth and beautiful lies.