Our world is immensely beautiful and immensely terrifying all at the same time. Try not to focus too much on one or you'll forget the other.

I will probably spend my entire life trying to chip away and extract the magic of photography.

I think a lot about what that magic is made of.

Sometimes I think I've gathered enough to hold in my hand and get a sense of it.

To understand it.

But the closer I look, the more it breaks apart and fractures into abstractions which blow away like dust.

This is both incredibly frustrating and immensely beautiful.

I think nestled delicately within that duality lies the answer:

A truth more akin to faith for the spiritual.

Somewhere beyond the confines of words.

Somewhere buried in the torpid depths of our own psyche.
A photo lives somewhere between a feeling and an object.
A moment and a truth.
A dream and a reality.

The thing is, I don't think the magic is meant to be understood.

But as long as the desire exists, people will chase it.

Loving it and hating it.

Loving the release. Hating the itch.

Yearning for fulfillment that never comes.