Just a moth, I am, fluttering towards the neon glow of Asian cities. Barcelona, the cradle of my birth in ’90, seems a distant memory against the throbbing veins of Asia.
Bound by tourist visas, every three months I shuffle through the Orient, a clockwork of change in my nomadic dance.
These steel beasts, these sweat-soaked jungles of concrete, they feel like home. My passport, a worn-out testament to wanderlust, carries the weight of visas memories. Each stamp, each sun-bleached photo, murmurs tales of alleyways and street corners, of faces caught in the play of light and shadow.
My tool? A nameless compact camera, scarred and weathered, its lens a silent observer of countless adventures.
Street photography? It’s not a pastime; it’s a secret dance with the city’s rhythm. No maps, no plans—just the rush of getting lost in the winding alleys of Ho Chi Minh, the sensory assault of Tokyo, or the frenzied pulse of Bangkok. My inner critic grumbles at a frame slightly off-kilter, but it’s the flaws, the unexpected moments, that stoke the fires of creativity.
And where am I now? Well, that’s the charm of being a nomadic. But if you must know, I’m currently reveling in the charm of Norway.
