How do we wake ourselves up when we are paralyzed, what is the size of such imagination? Do we receive it passively or can we intervene and disrupt it, wiggle our toe? 

There is a strange presence in this ineffable state, yet these moments are peaceful and sheltered. I rarely find such solitude elsewhere, but as I grew up in this age, I would not really even know if it was ever different. The sense of nostalgia those might feel who do indeed claim to know, is a vision of a beautiful past; an inverse logic on the promise of a legacy, an inevitably human craving. We don't just carry a deep desire to understand the stories that formed us, but wish to preserve them, add on; not to surrender or deem the future inevitable, instead invite magic into a state of being that might otherwise feel sterile and devoid of meaning.

How can photographs, with their inherited importance of proof, serve as a record of something not rooted in actuality, a way to understand the version of ourselves that we might never know. Looking at our modern world like this, religion and the spiritual language that construct our world seem a necessity.