Come 30.

1. There was a kind of self - the self that was very objective, the self that was very assertive. The self that is no longer there.

2. Memories revived is (then), the 30 year old I against my father's wrinkling, sagging skin and the weight of my mother idling away into a careful curation of childhood vignettes - the ones entangled in unfathomable domestic brutality, the modern laughter masking all the desolation. I chuckled, holding my tears - the self is muted.

3. Between delightful photos of I, seen standing in front of a birthday cake, holding a trophy, hands full of prizes - the many fractions of life, presented in the form of supposed joy. The past is immediate, somewhat selective in these images - postures, places, properties were recorded to signify occasion, celebration, achievement - all kind of positive, approval-ish things - that I am growing well, I am accomplishing some things as a child, as a daughter, in a sibling rivalry, for my father's and mother's attention - the self is an affirmation of the altruist other.