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LIFE IS GIVING APPLES, SO I'M MAKING ORANGE JUICE OUT OF THEM.
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When I photograph flowers, I think of how idyllic the petals are, and how its bud can be likened to the human heart, blooming and flaunting to the world. How I wish for kinder elements, so it won’t wilt as soon as it’s exposed in the open air. I think of every other ephemeral transitions, the illusion of our finite existence and the beauty and pang that go along with them—the lost gleam in my eyes, the waning pursuit of wilder adventures and the vitality of youth that once a bestfriend.

When I photograph flowers, I think of how idyllic the petals are, and how its bud can be likened to the human heart, blooming and flaunting to the world. How I wish for kinder elements, so it won’t wilt as soon as it’s exposed in the open air. I think of every other ephemeral transitions, the illusion of our finite existence and the beauty and pang that go along with them—the lost gleam in my eyes, the waning pursuit of wilder adventures and the vitality of youth that once a bestfriend.


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