I couldn’t sleep last night.
Caught somewhere between dreams of fright and flight—neither one offering peace, both steeped in a kind of invisible dread. It was terrifying.
I’d wake up groggy, make my way to the bathroom, and feel this brief relief—glad to be out of the claws of whatever chased me in my sleep. Then, like some cruel loop, I’d lie back down, close my eyes, and slide right back into the mess of dreaming again.
Fuck.
The mind and body… whimsical, unpredictable territories. They bend and sway to the winds of our security and our fear. And last night, I must’ve gone to bed with the weight of the world pressing on my chest. The wars, the lies, the heartbreak, the headlines that scream and echo long after the screen goes dark. It’s all too much. And it’s not healthy. Not for any of us.
But what do we do?
We have to find an escape. Not the kind that numbs us. Not a scrolling stupor or another Netflix binge. I mean the real kind—the kind that lifts, expands, and breathes life back into our tired spirits
For me, that escape has always been seeing. Not just looking, but seeing—the way light bends on an old fence, or how a shadow drips like ink down a sunlit wall. The small, quiet poetry of ordinary moments. That’s my way out. That’s where the noise dims and something softer, slower, and more sacred takes over.
I am at rest. I breathe again. Ahhhhhhh
When I raise my phone to take a photo, I’m not just capturing the scene—I’m reclaiming a part of my sanity. I’m grounding myself in the now. I’m saying, “This moment matters. This is real. And this—this—is beautiful.”
That might sound small. Trivial, even. But in a world set on spinning out of control, beauty is not a luxury. It’s a lifeline.
So when the world feels like it’s burning, I go find the light. I go for a walk. I talk to strangers. I photograph doorways, hands, cracks in the sidewalk. I listen to wind. I sit on a bench and breathe. I stare at clouds. I write a sentence, a thought, a feeling. I let the camera in my hand remind me that I’m still here. And that here—no matter how broken—still holds beauty.
Maybe that’s not everyone’s way out. But it’s mine. And I offer it to you, in case you’re looking.
Tonight, I’ll try again. To sleep, to surrender, to soften the grip. But if I wake in fear, I’ll remind myself: I know the way out. It’s not far. It’s just a shift in seeing.
And the path is lined with light.
Click.
Jack.
