The forest feels different today. The crisp February air carries a quiet promise, and as I walk between the trees, the sunlight peeks through bare branches—hesitant but present. It doesn’t quite reach my face, but I can feel it warming something deeper.
Some days feel heavier than others. Today was one of them. A long, exhausting day, a mind cluttered with unfinished thoughts, and an overwhelming sense of creative emptiness. I had no inspiration, no vision—just the restless urge to step outside, to breathe, to move.
Every year, the sight of snowdrops sparks a buzz on social media. Photos flood timelines, accompanied by debates: It’s too early! Climate change! Everything’s out of balance! How can there be snowdrops in January?
As if we could dictate to the snowdrops when they should bloom. As if we could command nature to follow our rules.
Life happened. School, work, and daily routines pushed creative passions into the background, making them feel like a luxury rather than a necessity. But the longing to recapture the magic I once felt—both in photography and storytelling—kept pushing me forward.