I found these three photographs on my camera roll last night and couldn't stop staring at them. They're completely different—a person lost in a book, a troop of baboons roughhousing in the sun, and a crowd of strangers welded together by bass. But there's something connecting them, something I couldn't shake.
That One Reader
The first photo is almost boring if you look at it wrong. Just someone reading on a park bench. But watch their face for a second—completely gone. Nowhere. The book has swallowed them whole.
I remember being that kid who would miss my subway stop because a book was too good to put down. There's something about that deliberate isolation that feels almost rebellious now. Everyone's scrolling, this person chose a paperback. Chose to disappear into someone else's words instead of consuming whatever algorithm served up.
We stopped doing that. Just... stopping. Just sitting with a story and letting it carry us somewhere.
The Baboons
Then there's this photo—three baboons messing around like they're the only creatures on Earth. One's definitely plotting something. Another looks like she's about to slap some sense into him.
It made me laugh out loud, alone in my apartment at 11pm. There's no self-awareness in this photo. No one performing for the camera. Just genuine monkey business.
We drive for hours to "see nature" in a zoo or aquarium, behind glass and railings. These guys are just existing—playing, fighting, figuring out their thing—completely unbothered by the fact that humans exist at all. That indifference feels peaceful, honestly. Like the world doesn't owe us a show.
The Festival
The third photo is chaos. Lights, hands in the air, ten thousand people moving as one organism. You can't tell where one person ends and another begins.
I've never been someone who "gets" festivals. The crowds, the noise, the overstimulation. But there's something in this photo I couldn't deny—everyone there chose to be there. They chose to surrender to the music and each other. That's a specific kind of courage, showing up and letting go.
The Thread
What connects these three isn't obvious, but it's there. Someone choosing to be fully present—in a story, in the moment, in the crowd. We're told we need more, more, more. But these photos feel like a quiet argument for less.
Less noise. Less performance. Just... being there, wherever there is.
I don't know who took these photos or what day they meant. But I think I'm going to try being more like them—showing up for the small, unglamorous moments that make up almost everything.
