“The original is unfaithful to the translation.”
— Jorge Luis Borges
I came across this quote recently and couldn’t stop thinking about it.
At first, it sounds backwards.
We’re taught that the original is the truth. The source. The version closest to reality. Everything else is simply an interpretation.
But maybe that’s the point.
The moment we experience something, we begin translating it.
A photograph is a translation of a moment.
A memory is a translation of an experience.
A story is a translation of a feeling.
Even this post is a translation of a thought that existed only in my head a few minutes ago.
No matter how carefully we try to preserve something, parts of it are always lost. Other parts become clearer. The result is never identical to what came before.
Maybe that’s why I enjoy photography.
Not because it perfectly captures reality, but because it doesn’t.
Every image is incomplete. Every frame leaves something outside the edges. Every photograph becomes a different version of the moment it came from.
The same is true for memories.
Years later, we remember the feeling of a place more than the details. We remember a conversation differently than the person who shared it with us. We revisit old photos and realize we’ve been carrying a slightly different version of the past all along.
Nothing stays exactly as it was.
And maybe it was never meant to.
Instead of trying to preserve moments perfectly, I’ve started appreciating the ways they change over time. The stories we tell ourselves. The meanings we discover later. The details we missed the first time around.
Every translation is imperfect.
But sometimes that’s where the beauty is.
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