Free Shipping On all Orders over $400 · Zero Tariffs for Most Countries

0

Your Cart is Empty

“Light does not arrive—it remembers.”

The hush before dawn lay over Ta Prohm like fine dust.  A single breath of wind traced the pillars, carrying the scent of damp stone and root.  Pillars rose like monks in meditation—still, worn, attentive to silence.  I waited, body stilled, as though the corridor itself were inhaling.

stone exhales a hush
pillars lean toward waking light
shadow keeps the hymn

The first silver drift of morning slipped across the floor, revealing more stillness than form.  I pressed the shutter exactly once, unsure whether I had captured the corridor or merely the pause that held it.  In the darkroom days later, tone by tone, the memory breathed again.

When the print emerged, it did not speak of architecture.  It spoke of presence—of a light that returns only to those who wait without asking.


Also in My Journal

Stillness in the Shape of Shelter
Stillness in the Shape of Shelter

1 min read

A rain-streaked Buddha sits beneath the coiled naga Muchilinda, not to resist the world, but to hold stillness within it. This meditation reveals a print shaped by breath, not description.

Read More
The Shelter That Remains
The Shelter That Remains

1 min read

Time gathers around the Buddha as breath, not burden. In this haibun, the artist offers a moment that does not explain itself—it simply remains, unmoving beneath the shelter of silence.

Read More
What Light Remembers
What Light Remembers

1 min read

Light rests on the Buddha’s chest without revealing him. In this moment of reverent waiting, the image forms as presence—not picture. The serpent shelters, the stone remembers, and the poem listens.

Read More