Photography is weird. You’ve got the people who treat their cameras like they’re nuclear launch codes—checking every dial, obsessing over ISO like it’s some secret recipe. Then there are those who swear the perfect golden hour is the only time worth shooting.

And don’t get me started on the endless debates about gear — “Full frame or crop sensor?” “Prime or zoom?” “Film or digital?” It’s like the camera gods wrote a sacred text nobody can fully understand.

Me? I just want to catch life in motion—no staged poses, no pretentious light setups, and definitely no accidentally cutting off someone’s foot or blinking mid-shot. I don’t care if the horizon’s perfectly straight or the aperture’s textbook-perfect.

What matters to me is the feeling. The timing. The unnoticed moments. The real ones. Because at the end of the day, the best picture isn’t the one that gets the most likes — it’s the one that tells a story, quietly and honestly.

That’s why I’ve always seen photography as storytelling—not the loud kind, but the quiet kind. The kind that happens between moments — unscripted, fleeting, sometimes a little messy, always human.

When I taught journalism, I’d tell my students this:
You’re not just taking pictures. You’re catching stories before they disappear.
You’re writing with light and shadow.
And you don’t need fancy equipment—just a good eye and an honest heart.

The best photos, the ones that stick with you, aren’t always the ones people pose for.
They’re the ones where no one notices the camera.
Where someone’s mid-laugh, or lost in thought.
Where a kid’s shoelace is untied, or someone’s wiping hot sauce off their chin.

Moments that feel small, but carry weight.

Because life’s not organized into neat chapters. It’s a scattered collection of glances, gestures, conversations half-heard in passing. But somehow, they connect. They stitch together into something that feels whole.

Photography helps me see that.
It slows me down.
It reminds me that there’s beauty in the random, meaning in the mundane.
That sometimes the story is in the background, or right at the edge of the frame.

So no, I don’t shoot studio portraits. 

I don’t chase sunsets. (Though i will stop and shoot one when the moment calls for it.)
I chase life as it happens.
Candidly. Quietly.
One frame at a time.

Because storytelling doesn’t always need words.
Life doesn’t wait for good lighting.
Sometimes, all it takes is one honest image—and the courage to notice it.

Enjoy this one? You might just be one of us. There’s more waiting at Inkblotz—stories and reflections that feel like remembering something you forgot you knew.