Stories are like mirrors we hold up to ourselves, but they're also lenses that tint what we see. Choosing which moments to frame for the screen is not just a creative act; it's a small ethical decision because it decides which values we amplify and which we silence. In that sense, every frame we choose is a subtle statement about what we consider worth remembering, and that shapes our own identity as well as how others see us. So when you pick a memory to show, remember you’re not just telling a story—you’re also telling yourself who you are and who you hope to become.

I’m still wrestling with that first morning I watched a storm roll over my town, the way the light fractured on wet roofs, and I felt both terrified and oddly hopeful. I keep it in my mind, but I’ve never shown it on screen, perhaps because framing it feels like forcing a fleeting, chaotic feeling into a neat frame. It’s the kind of memory that resists being reduced to a single image.

If I let the storm roll through without forcing a single shot, I think I’d feel more connected to the moment’s true pulse, like a living thread rather than a still image. The narrative would breathe, and maybe the silence between drops would speak louder than any frame. I’d be grateful for that impermanence, for the part of the story that refuses to be boxed.