There is a yearning in my gaze that refuses to settle. A quiet restlessness that moves like a current beneath my skin, easing only when the world opens itself to me again. It’s never enough just to be – I need to catch it too: the fleeting, the flowing, the thing that’s almost over the moment it begins.
Sometimes I chase the light – that soft, golden brushstroke that exists only in the final minutes before day surrenders to night. Other times, it’s the glance of a stranger that catches me – a window into a life I’ll never live, yet somehow get to touch for the length of a single breath.
It’s about presence, yes – but also about distance. In trying to hold on to what can’t be held, I find myself both outside of and inside everything. I become both participant and witness. A collector of atmospheres. A curator of the impermanent.
In the end, it’s all about love – a relentless love for the unexpected, the unfocused, the unpolished. The kind of thing I’ll never fully explain, but that stays with me anyway, burned into memory like the afterglow of something real.
In the end, I don’t think I’m collecting images. Not really. Not places, or faces, or even light. I’m gathering proof that I’ve lived – awake, alert, and with all senses open.