French la Vie

The rich, faded texture of time.
That’s what I see when I look at these things—
the way facades softens,
the way color fades,
the way old text curls at the edge of paper, and
ink tells the stories.

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I take photos to remember what I cannot copy.
Though, somehow, we keep trying—
paint mixed to match the patina of age,
fabrics dyed to match that faded overtime look,
Carved wood imitated by machine.
A style reborn, again and again.

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But what moves me isn’t the imitation.
It’s the pulse beneath it—
that human thread that can’t help but speak of beauty,
even when it fades.

Photo Unknown Source

Old documents, smudged letters,
their meaning often lost in translation due to the old script.
French wonder in a corner of a drawer,
a sliver of gold leaf clinging to a frame,
the ghost of blue on a shutter.

History repeats itself,
not because we forget—
but because creativity can’t help but weave through the years,
reaching back,
borrowing light,
finding itself again in another hand.