Pike Place, after dark, on New Year’s Eve.
I started this account seven years ago as a grounding tool; a way to mark my x on the spot with a move as massive as immigration. Over time, it became a diary of sorts. A way to break with hesitation and rearticulate myself and my thoughts, especially in the depths of pandemic longing and despair.
But now I find myself wanting to write less and say less. Some of that is a consequence of having picked up photography as an honest-to-god hobby, instead of just a visual pairing with the verbal main meal. But some of that is also internal; I’m a little tired of the soap box. Maybe I’m getting old. Maybe my life has enough of that going on outside of this black mirrored machine: enough expressing, enough advocating, enough pushing and teasing through. Or maybe I’m just drafting something different. I don’t know. My captions are just getting shorter and I’m fine with that right now.
Pike Place, after dark, on New Year’s Eve.