Late at night, I chat with friends about our plans for the month. “Can’t wait,” we keep saying. Before I know it, midnight has passed. My favorite band has just released a new album, and once I start listening, I can’t stop. That late-night excitement. In that rush, I return to the poem I had left unfinished. It was about happiness.

I’m grateful for these accelerating days. For the trust, faith, and expectations that continue to build. As I run through them, I try to capture the fun moments in photos, in words. Yet those captured things often stay tucked away, never seeing the light of day, quietly piling up in some corner of me. Remembering that sometimes makes me a little sad.

Still, it feels like a happy kind of sadness. Every day shines in its own colors, rich with emotion, full of laughter and tears. The photos and words that remain as traces, as afterglow, feel like small blessings.

Sometimes, I feel as if the words themselves are running alongside me. In those moments, they are neither records nor memories, but the moment itself—fleeting, vivid, alive. That is when I realize again that I am, after all, someone who writes poems.

What is made by thought can be understood by thought. What is made without thinking cannot be understood even by thinking. That’s only natural, but that’s exactly why I want to keep sharpening intuition, creating without thinking, enjoying it, thinking again, and sharpening intuition once more. Step by step, climbing the spiral of creativity.

If a photograph does not simply hold a memory but becomes someone’s present, becomes a memory in itself, that must be the work of a photographer.

If a word does not simply hold a memory but becomes someone’s present, becomes a memory in itself, that must be the work of a poet.

To create something that holds memories and something that can become a memory. To keep both in a gentle balance. That, I think, is what I truly wish for.