Poetic
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Mantaray
It wasn’t about the pose, or the frame. Just light, salt, and a body at rest — folding into the shore like it belonged there.
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Not a Reflection
I wasn’t asking a question, but the pond replied anyway—quietly, in shapes I didn’t expect. Born from a listening exercise during OneBeat Borneo, this image isn’t about reflection. It’s about presence, and what might answer back when we’re still enough to notice.
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Trace of Us
We don’t always notice the moment something becomes normal. This isn’t about pollution. It’s about permission—how silence can let things stay that were never meant to belong. A photo, a bottle, a question left floating.
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Briefly Here
The ocean doesn’t feel distant anymore. It feels like it’s shifting faster than we notice—softly, steadily, changing what used to feel familiar. This photo isn’t about saving anything. It’s about paying attention, before what’s underfoot disappears without asking to be remembered.
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Before I Could Understand, It Had Passed
I didn’t know the story when I took the photo—just that something had moved through the water. Later, I learned about the golden deer spirit said to live there. Maybe the river remembered it for me—just long enough for the camera to catch what I hadn’t yet understood.
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From the Dirt, a Bloom
I placed a wilting flower on a cracked toilet—not to beautify, but to ask what survives in the wrong place. The silence said more than the flower could. Sometimes, beauty isn’t in what blooms—but in what stays, quietly, where it was never meant to belong.
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A Bloom After Burn
A cigarette butt and a few fragile flowers shared the same frame—one ending, one still holding on. Smoke rose like a final breath, and in that quiet, I saw not contrast, but conversation. Life and decay, side by side, asking no questions, offering no answers—just existing, together.
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Melting Reflections
In New York’s constant motion, I paused—watching the skyline melt into glass. The buildings softened, became dreamlike. In that reflection, I saw more than structure: even what feels solid eventually shifts. Nothing holds its shape for long in a world that never stays still.
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Whispers of Dust
At Osaka Aquarium, I captured dust floating in light—weightless, almost cosmic. It moved like galaxies underwater, reminding me of old truths: the smallest things belong to something vast. In that quiet drift, I remembered what we often forget—the unseen is still part of everything.
