Have you ever noticed how we've become archaeologists of our own lives? We scroll through photos from last year, videos from last month, status updates from yesterday—curating evidence that we existed, that we experienced something worth preserving.
I was deleting old files yesterday when I stumbled on a folder of photos from a camping trip three years ago. The images were beautiful: golden hour light through pine trees, friends laughing around a fire, a perfect sunset over the lake. But here's what troubled me—I couldn't remember being there. I remembered the photos. I could describe the scene because I'd looked at these images a dozen times since. But the actual experience? The smell of woodsmoke, the temperature of the air, what we talked about—gone.
This raises an uncomfortable question: when we document an experience, are we preserving it or replacing it?