sometimes the bloom takes so long you forget you even planted the seed — and then one day it’s just there, wide open, like it had been waiting for you the whole time
silence can roar, softness can split stone, the Black breath and body-once cornered by survival, can open so wide that it holds universes without fracture.
The ache about being a Black street photographer? That is real
Not just artistic tension. It’s structural grief
How do you fail enough to discover brilliance, when you’re not given the luxury of failure?
How do you hold a lens to the world
when said world refuses to hold you?