Not footprints, not prayers. Just residue.
I found this bottle drifting on a lake in Bali.
There’s a temple nearby, so I assumed the water was sacred. But maybe sacred places don’t look like we expect them to anymore. Not untouched, not preserved—just enduring.
The bottle was a familiar shape. Beer, I think. It didn’t shock me. Maybe that’s the part that stuck.
It didn’t feel like destruction. It felt like routine.
I didn’t take the photo to make a point. I just felt something off—like the water was carrying something it never asked for.
And I wondered, at what point does presence become permission?
I think about this a lot lately.
How fast we normalize what doesn’t belong.
How silence isn’t always peace—it’s often just things going unspoken long enough to feel normal.
I’m not angry when I see images like this. Just a little more unsure about where we draw the line between what we notice and what we leave behind.
