Autumn never fails to turn to winter
The more time I spend with these images, the harder it becomes to pinpoint a conscious starting timeline for their creation. It feels as if they have emerged from deep within me—something that has always been there, silently urging me to pay attention.
I got so used to farewells and departures, which may have shaped the true intention behind this work. I’ve struggled to learn how to accept and let go; instead, I find myself holding onto patterns of loss and grief. This exhaustion has quietly etched an emptiness that’s difficult to understand. Expecting endings has become compulsively normal, leading me to let the present moment slip away into a future where everything is destined to end.
In my desperation to capture joy in the moment, nostalgia compels me to photograph details, colors, and light, hoping that later, when it’s all over, I can rely on my memories. Yet no matter how much I try, I often glance out of the corner of my eye at nothing more than echoes of presences idealized by distance.
It’s hard not to get intoxicated by the warmth I feel when I’m under the blankets. Perhaps this longing drives me to fall asleep again, hoping to recreate that lost dream where, after searching for you, I felt on the verge of finally finding you. I could sense your presence but couldn’t see you or discover who you truly are—just one last time in this strange lottery of dreams. I’m not sure—or maybe I just don’t remember—if I ever found you.
When I woke up, the anxiety of your absence lingered. Now it has become bearable, not because the wound has healed, but because I’ve simply gotten used to it. Just as there was a last day I saw you, there will come a day when I finally forget that I forgot you.
Maybe I keep photographing to express how deeply I’ve missed you all this time. It doesn’t matter how many times I travel this path, back and forth, from crisp to blurry; I just want to stretch those cozy moments before autumn turns into winter—like the times I hugged you while wearing a wool sweater. Perhaps sunsets are beautiful because they remind the last moments to enjoy the weary breaths of precious light that soon, will go from orange to an inevitable dark blue.
These annoying cycles, end up like a series of unfinished films—I once thought there was no story, but now it resonates with what I love, what scares me, and my constant rush fueled by the illusion of not having enough time left.
