The air was crisp and cool that morning and the morning sun left long shadows of trees across the road. I could have steered away from it and shoot with my back towards the sun. But no, I had to shoot the sun through the bare branches, risking highlight, losing a photography fundamental, it seems. The objective was to replicate what I saw through my own eyes. It was not about the image being aesthetic. It was for my memory. I realised that many years ago, when young and not having any camera, memories were static images and short videos and sometimes, the colours got mixed up from uncertainty. At times, it was difficult to recall these static images precisely; in detail. For example, I wrote about a house I stayed in 48 years ago. Interpreting those memories into words were difficult because the images held in the mind were not exactly tangible. They do not seem to be in any coherent pages and when recalled again and again, the seemingly book of images seem to change, with new images thrown in. The colours seemed to change too, sometimes in black and white and sometimes, in colours that did not seem to be anchored. It is hard to describe it. Memories are not the same as looking through the eyes. They are not exactly pictures; they are in a different format.