What makes us who we are? What is our life? We all really only exist in this moment, and, as you read this, that moment is gone – it is the past, it is dead. The future does not yet exist. But are you only existing now, in this fleeting moment, or are you also the you of your past, of your childhood, of last year – the dead you? I don’t know how past, present, future interconnect or what “reality” really is, but I do know that as I get older, I think more and more about my “dead” life, and of those friends and loved ones who exist no longer at this moment. The text in my painting reads: I feel the ghosts of my younger years People and places, changed or gone. My younger self looks back at me As if it is I in the underworld. When people lose their memory and memories, they often seem to live more in the underworld of their past long gone, and what is left of them here in this moment seems just a shell. Where does the self really exist?