Time is such a scam. Like, genuinely. Nobody warns you that it’s the only thing you can’t thrift, can’t trade, can’t tape back together with washi tape and hope for the best. It just… evaporates. Like the rain on Florida asphalt five minutes after a storm, leaving behind that smell that makes you feel nostalgic for something you haven’t even lived yet.
And maybe I think about this too much because I’m a street photographer — which sounds way cooler than “kid wandering around Florida with a camera and too many feelings.” But seriously, when you spend your life chasing moments, you start realizing how fast they slip away. One second the light is perfect, the next it’s gone, swallowed by clouds or swallowed by time or swallowed by the universe being dramatic again.
I swear Florida is the best and worst place to learn this. Everything here is temporary. Storms roll in like they’re late for a shift. Sunsets burn out in minutes. People come and go like migrating birds. Even the buildings feel like they’re one hurricane away from becoming “local history.” So I take pictures — of cracked sidewalks, flickering gas‑station signs, old men feeding pigeons behind Winn‑Dixie, teenagers smoking behind the bowling alley like they’re in a music video. I’m basically documenting the world before it disappears.
And that’s what gets me spiraling at 1:47 a.m. What if we lived like we only had a week left?
Not in a tragic way — more like in a “holy crap, I’m alive and the sky is doing something insane right now” way. If I had seven days, I’d stop pretending I don’t care. I’d take photos of everything, even the stuff people say isn’t “aesthetic.” I’d tell people I love them even if my voice sounds like a dying cicada. I’d wear the outfit that makes me look like a background character in a coming‑of‑age film. I’d stop waiting for the “right moment” because the right moment is literally happening and I’m already missing it.
Being a street photographer taught me that moments don’t wait for you. They don’t care if your camera is off or your hair looks bad or you’re overthinking your entire existence. They just happen. And you either catch them or you don’t.
Maybe that’s what living like you only have a week left really means — being awake. Actually awake. Noticing the way the humidity curls your hair. The way the sky turns neon orange over the Publix parking lot. The way your heart does that weird flutter when you realize you’re finally becoming someone younger you would’ve admired.
Time is the only thing we can’t hoard. So maybe the most indie thing we can do is spend it like it matters.
Messy. Honest. Chaotic. Soft. Whatever. Just real.
Because if time is all we’ve got left, then I’m gonna spend mine chasing sunsets, dodging thunderstorms, and capturing every tiny, fleeting, Florida‑soaked moment before it disappears.
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