chemical travel

eighteen years ago, i stood at the center of a group in north bengal, a child with a blank face staring into the mechanical eye of a timed analog camera, silently questioning why we couldn't just be without the need to document it.

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today, at twenty-six, that skepticism has dissolved into a form of chemical time travel; each polamatic is a portal from my one-door room back to a "nowhere" in the hills where my adult self wanders as a ghost. this collection is a physical witness to a shifting world—from the catastrophic threads of distant clouds and a woman staring into a stormy night, to the quiet heartbreak of finding my old toy cars still resting on my grandmother’s bed while the city outside has rewritten itself entirely.

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between the flight of pigeons and the red alien dot amidst the fallen banyan branches, i am desperately searching for a trace of the original impression, only to find an empty chair waiting in the light—the final, solitary witness to a power that once was, and the only answer to that childhood question of what it means to truly leave a mark.