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Sometimes, the quietest moments happen in the busiest places.
A curious gaze, a city in motion and a child who reminds us to pause.
The court was cold, the morning new. But they were already warmed by the rhythm of the game. Two players, two shadows. One rise, one reach. The moment between action and answer. Between hope and defense. In that space, caught by golden light and winter chill, a story was written without a single word.
In the golden hush of mornings, they played—barefoot, bright-eyed, never in a hurry. The mist, the trees, the cracked court... and the boys I’ll never forget. Some moments don’t pass—they stay.
She spoke to no one,
yet the trees leaned in—
each step a secret,
each glance a hymn.
In the hush of moss and memory,
the forest listened.
Their silence speaks loud—
a language of wind and leaf,
teaching me to breathe.
In the silent beat before the storm, a young athlete lifts his leg with purpose—focused, fearless, and utterly present. Time seems to pause as the ball slices through the tension in the air, eyes locked on its path, teammates and opponents suspended in anticipation.
It was quiet.
Then suddenly—
the sky split,
and it felt like everything was on fire.
There are presences you don’t question.
Not right away.
You watch.
You wait.
And hanging in the air: the eternal question neither one can answer...
—
Il y a des présences qu’on ne questionne pas.
Pas tout de suite.
On regarde.
On attend.
Et en suspens : l’éternelle question à laquelle aucun des deux n’a la réponse…
youtu.be/8X6uaSeZUNk?si=rizHxJr-56M7_Acq
A beautiful girl, bathed in soft light and surrounded by nature’s calm, becomes part of a fleeting dream—almost a fairy—as the LensBaby’s signature blur gently dissolves the boundaries of time and place.
In the quiet shelter of the cave, a family of monkeys huddles close—united by instinct, strengthened by love. The mother’s arms cradle her young, while the father stands guard, calm but alert.
This hidden place offers more than safety. It is a world of stillness, where light touches fur like whispers, and every heartbeat echoes a promise of protection. In the shadows, their bond shines brightest.
When the pressure to know and improve never rests, even the purest intentions can twist into something unsettling.
Another frame from last week’s walk. Soft light, quiet branches. Shot with 55mm / f1.8, golden hour through the last breath of winter.
Malgré les faiblesses, malgré les doutes,
il existe une vérité plus profonde.
Peu importe ce que l’on pense de soi :
inutile, effacé, invisible...
En chacun, il y a une vérité plus stable,
plus vaste que les sentiments du moment.
Une voix qui ne change pas, même quand tout vacille.
Certains ressentent plus fort.
Pas par choix.
Parce qu’ils entendent encore ce qui blesse.
Parce qu’ils ne savent pas détourner les yeux.
Parce que l’injustice leur est insupportable,
et qu’ils ne peuvent rester là sans agir ou dénoncer.
En chacun, une présence intérieure,
un regard qui ne flanche jamais,
même quand la confiance en soi se retire.
Chacun porte sa propre voix.
Et cette vérité,
ce sont nos valeurs inébranlables.
Ce n’est pas ce que l’on montre.
Ce n’est pas ce que l’on entend.
C’est ce que l’on est.
--
Despite weaknesses, despite doubts,
there exists a deeper truth.
No matter what one thinks of oneself:
useless, erased, invisible...
In everyone, there is a more stable truth,
greater than the feelings of the moment.
A voice that does not change, even when everything shakes.
Some feel more deeply.
Not by choice.
Because they still hear what wounds.
Because they cannot look away.
Because injustice is unbearable to them,
and they cannot remain still without acting or speaking out.
In everyone, an inner presence,
a gaze that never falters,
even when self-trust fades.
Each carries their own voice.
And this truth,
these are our unshakable values.
It is not what we show.
It is not what we are told.
It is what we are.
youtu.be/p9cokosaXLA?si=Riyj3JMKv_5eZs9M
No signs of worship. No footsteps leading here.
And yet it stands, a crown of branches, carefully arranged,
as if the forest itself has memory and intention.
It’s not mine, but I feel its pull.
A structure with no builder, an altar with no offering,
built from the ruins of storms and time.
Maybe for gods we forgot,
or for something still watching....
Marked trees in the forest, leading somewhere or warning of what’s ahead.
