At first, it looked dead.
A mess of old vines.
Twisted branches.
Things crossing over each other so tightly I couldnāt tell what was still aliveā
and what had been gone for a long time.
That was what made me stop.
In black and white, the whole thing looks stripped down to bone.
No color to soften it.
No green to reassure you that something is still growing.
Just shape.
Shadow.
Tangles.
Old wood wrapped around older wood.
Somewhere inside all of that, something is still alive.
I think thatās what I like about it.
Nature doesnāt wait for everything dead to disappear before it starts again.
It grows around it.
Through it.
Over it.
The old damage stays.
The broken pieces stay.
Sometimes the dead things become part of the structure holding the living ones up.
Thereās something very October about that.
Not death exactly.
The space between death and whatever comes next.
The point where something has already ended, but hasnāt disappeared.
Where decay and growth are touching.
Where you canāt quite tell which one youāre looking at anymore.
And maybe thatās why the picture feels a little unsettling.
Nothing is clean.
Nothing is finished.
Nothing has politely stepped aside to make room for what comes after it.
Everything remains tangled together.
Which, if Iām being honest, feels a lot more truthful than the idea that we always leave old things neatly behind.
Sometimes we donāt.
Sometimes we grow around them.
Sometimes they become part of us.
Sometimes the thing you thought was dead is simply waiting somewhere beneath everything else.
And sometimesā
you have to look closer to figure out which is which.
Until next time,
ā Destiny
P.S. Whatās something you thought was gone, only to realize part of it was still growing somewhere underneath? š¤
