The Weight of What Remains

We leave traces behind us, like breadcrumbs on a path that leads nowhere. A spent match, a crushed petal, the filter of a cigarette pressed into the cold earth. We think these things are small, inconsequential, but they are the geography of our habits. They mark the hours we have traded away for a moment of heat or a brief distraction from the silence. It is a strange vanity, to believe that our presence is permanent, when the world is so quick to reclaim what we discard. We walk through our days, shedding pieces of ourselves, never stopping to look back at the trail. Eventually, the wind shifts. The snow falls. The ground covers the evidence of our passing, and we are left with only the memory of the hunger that drove us to leave the mark in the first place. What is left when the habit is finally broken?

Ryan Perris has captured this quiet decay in his image titled Death Note. It is a reminder of the things we discard and the stories they continue to tell. Does the silence of the object speak louder than the person who left it behind?