2002 — Kyoto, Japan
Film Photography
It was our first time in Kyoto.
November.
The air was cold but incredibly clear.
The kind of cold that wakes you up instead of making you tired.
We walked for a long time that day.
No rush, no fixed plan.
Just following small streets, turning corners, getting slightly lost on purpose.
Our feet were sore, but in a good way.
The city felt quiet.
Not empty — just calm.
Like everything was moving a little slower.
Eventually, we arrived at a temple.
Sunlight came from behind the roof, low and golden.
And there were strings everywhere, tied with small pieces of white paper.
So many of them.
Layer after layer.
Moving gently in the wind.
People had written their wishes on those papers.
Prayers.
Hopes.
Promises to themselves.
Some were new and bright.
Some already fading.
All hanging together.
I stood close and watched them rustle.
The sound was soft, almost like whispering.
For a moment, it felt like the air was full of other people’s dreams.
And somehow, ours too.
So I lifted my camera.
Not to document the temple.
But to keep this feeling.
This lightness.
Back then, everything in our life still felt open.
We were younger.
We didn’t know where we would end up.
No long-term plans.
No clear future.
Just two people traveling together, carrying small bags and too many possibilities.
Maybe that’s why this place touched me so much.
Seeing all those wishes tied in the wind —
it didn’t feel religious.
It felt human.
Everyone wanting something better.
Everyone hoping quietly.
We were no different.
When I look at this photo now, I don’t remember the exact route we took or the name of the temple.
What I remember is the air.
Cold. Bright. Fresh.
And the feeling that life was still wide open.
Like anything could happen.
This image still gives me that same feeling.
Hope, in its simplest form.
Not loud.
Just steady.