As I slowly found my way into performance and film, and began to enjoy the act of making, this camera was always there. It was the only one I had.

For a long time, it sat forgotten in a drawer. Then one day, almost by accident, I thought about recording something—and I remembered it.

I’ve always believed that everything that has happened to me has shaped who I am. Even a small plastic toy car hitting my foot in my childhood would have made me different today. (I read this sentence somewhere in a book, but I can’t remember who wrote it; I like it, but it is not originally written by me) The camera is the same. Without it, I wouldn’t be who I am today.

A few weeks ago, when I started thinking about buying a new camera, I felt the need to make one last film with this one. Almost as if saying goodbye. It’s time.

Maybe this is what a camera means. And of recording itself. It leaves behind proof that I was once there. After the moment is fixed, all that remains is forgetting. I cannot carry time with me; only, I can live within it.

I remember that it was she who bought this camera—ten years ago, not long after we became deskmates in high school. We may never see each other again; I hope you are doing well.