An odd feeling, going through photos of myself on Facebook, tagged pictures that people took on nights out at the bar, at parties, or on trips. I keep telling myself that if I ever want to see these images again, all I have to do is contact the people who put them up. I want this process to teach me a lesson about how I remember things and what I’ll do to clarify certain memories in the future if they aren’t so neatly catalogued. It’s one thing to sit at my computer hitting the left and right keys, trying to piece together what happened on a certain night by looking at smiling face after smiling face, even when I’m not curious. It’s another to dig through shoeboxes and albums when I absolutely, positively have to.
All these images of me from the past four years, most of them taken by my camera-happy ex, with a sharp decline in frequency after we broke up. Wincing at my crooked teeth and bad haircuts. Watching my weight go up and down. Wondering if I should start shaving again, or if I should keep the beard, like anyone looks at anyone but themselves in these pictures. Am I invisible if the people I spend time with don’t carry cameras? Should I be carrying one more often?
Maybe. For now, untag, untag. I’ve done enough cramming. Time to crawl out of the library.