倒影與記憶的收集者 A collector of reflections and memories- Jane

Her face shifted with the seasons, her eyes often reflecting the sadness of a stranger she'd once passed on the street, or the joy of a child laughing on a distant playground.

2024.10.03

在城市被遺忘的角落，珍已經成為了超越自我的存在。她是一位收集倒影的人，專門收集那些半隱約的瞬間、模糊在過去與現在之間的記憶。她的名字在陽光透過破裂窗戶、散射到破碎的人行道上的小巷中輕聲流傳。可是沒有人確切知道她的長相。

人們說她活在層層疊疊的時光中，彷彿她的身份在霧中漂浮，與無數其他人交融在一起。珍已經不再是單一個體了。她是一個複合體——一個活生生的檔案，保存著所有她曾經遇見，或許只是短暫擦肩而過的人的記憶。她的臉隨著季節變換，有時她的眼睛反映出一位陌生人的悲傷，有時是一位遙遠操場上嬉戲的孩子的快樂。

當她漫步在她的城市中，周圍的顏色似乎依附在她的皮膚上——褪色的棕褐色，柔和的灰色，淡淡的粉紅和紅色。她在這些色彩中尋找故事。每一個模糊的邊緣，每一個柔和的色調都承載著那些她所觸碰過的人們的情感。她不再像其他人一樣被時間束縛。

她的肖像，現在在整個城市中可見，從未清晰，也從未銳利。它們就像她一樣存在於某種中間狀態——隱約卻從不完全揭示珍的真實面貌，而是呈現出無數他人的一瞥。看到這些畫像的人感到某種熟悉感。他們說不上來，無法描述，但他們明白：珍是一面鏡子，短暫地反映出他們隱藏的自我。

在人生流逝的模糊瞬間中，珍活著——總是存在，卻總是難以捉摸，她的身份編織在記憶逐漸消逝的層次之中。

In a forgotten corner of the city, Jane had become something more than herself. She was a collector of reflections, of half-seen moments, memories that lived in the blur between past and present. Her name was whispered in alleys where sunlight broke apart through shattered windows, casting her likeness onto the cracked pavements in a kaleidoscope of fractured light. But no one knew her face—not exactly.

They said she lived in layers, as though her identity had drifted into the fog, merging with countless others. Jane wasn’t a singular person anymore. She was a composite—a living archive of everyone she had ever met, or perhaps, never truly met but only glimpsed in passing. Her face shifted with the seasons, her eyes often reflecting the sadness of a stranger she'd once passed on the street, or the joy of a child laughing on a distant playground.

As she walked through her city, the colors around her clung to her skin—faded sepias, muted grays, soft tones of pink and red. In these hues, she found stories. Every blurred edge, every soft shade carried the emotion of those whose lives she touched. She wasn’t bound to time the way others were.

Her portraits, now seen across the city, were never clear, never sharp. They existed in between—just like her. The colors and forms danced, never truly revealing Jane’s own face, but instead a glimpse into countless others. The people who saw them recognized something familiar. They couldn’t name it, couldn’t describe it, but they understood: Jane was the mirror in which all of their hidden selves could be seen, however briefly.

In the soft blur of life’s passing moments, Jane lived—always present, yet always elusive, her identity woven into the fading layers of memory.

My name is Jane.