f l a s h b a c k . f r i d a y .

My brother Dylan (up there on the right!), once told me that I dressed like a clown ( and possibly that I was an embarrassment). At the time, I had been wearing a bright orange coat, green, patterned canvas boots and knee high socks, so maybe he was right.

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My mum's parenting theory was always "as long as it isn't morally wrong or physically threatening, let your children make their own decisions"; this applied to clothings as much as anything else. I often tease her about the outfits that I had access to as a child (there were a lot of leggings, how ironic), but really, I think I looked pretty cool. Thanks mum!

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Lately, it feels like all I think about is the girl in these photos: the versions of myself that existed once, long ago. I imagine them still out there somewhere, preserved on alternate plains of reality; in memory, I jump from self to self as easily as flipping through photographs, remembering.

She is me and I am her, but she's gone forever. I must finally be an adult now, mourning my childhood as if that little girl really did die.