girls love having their little digital archives
– Noor Unnahar, Instagram account "noor_unnahar"
[TEXT ID: / [Lemons] / My father's mother loved lemons. Years after her passing, / we run out of everything, but never / lemons. / Nothing else shelters grief / better than memory. / It's my father way of saying, / even in your absence, you will be / cared by me. / END ID]
Chances are you’ve seen Fayum mummy portraits, the very realistic and warm panel paintings depicting the people of Roman Egypt between the 1st century BC and the 3rd century AD.
They’re breathtaking and very moving. Familiar faces, so human and so beautiful in their humanity. Most of them have been divorced from their purpose, torn from the bodies of the people they depict.
It is a different feeling entirely to see them in their original context.
This boy died before he could finish growing that mustache. Someone’s beloved son, crowned in golden laurels for all eternity, swaddled in linen. He is in there. The depiction of his face covers his face. The other portraits have lost their subject, greedily taken by those who wanted to admire their beauty without acknowledging the profound grief they represent.
I just played through Slay the Princess for the first time, and… I cannot stop thinking about the Cage.
To be profoundly and finally severed from the illusion of your autonomy. To look on, from a prison of your own making, as your body acts out a legacy of violence against the body of the only other person who can or will come near you. To see their body perform that same violent dance. To be bound to this person, and in your limited state not to understand why. In that moment, as the silhouettes in the shadows act out the story of the princess and the slayer, to share a moment of peace with the one sent to kill you.
Intertwined. Diminished. Reductive, mutually destructive. Trapped in an infinite dance.
Beautiful.
To have been so determined you never had free will, never could have found another way. To realize you may have been wrong. To be trapped in a pattern, but unaware of what that pattern truly is.
Still, for that finite and watchful moment, not to be alone.
(Mild gore under cut.)