디시인사이드

When snow falls overnight, I almost instinctively head toward the old palace.

It's not so much because I have a special plan, but rather because something like a long-stored habit quietly begins to replay within me.

The palace on a winter morning is silent and alluring.

In place of sound, there is temperature; in place of movement, there is light.

Snow covers everything, yet at the same time reveals everything—

the layers of time, the texture of a courtyard untouched by footprints, the quiet breath of ancient stone steps.

It feels like a kind of “completed soliloquy.”

I walk slowly through that scenery, taking photographs.

There is no need to hurry. Here, time flows in a rhythm entirely different from the clocks of the city.

White snow blankets the tiled roofs and courtyards,

and color falls silent, leaving behind only the bare minimum of language.

Looking at the scene through the viewfinder, the boundary between reality and unreality softens just a little more.

At some point, I'm seized by a vague sensation—

whether the place where I stand is an extension of reality, or a meticulously crafted crack into another dimension.

It's not an unpleasant feeling at all.

Rather, it's closer to a small joy, like discovering a forgotten bill in the pocket of my coat.

What the shutter ultimately produces isn't all that important.

What matters is that, while seeing the world through the camera and photographs,

Those white, enchanting scenes saw more deeply into me, leaving behind an indelible trace.

On the way back to everyday life, the snow has already begun to melt.

Footprints overlap, and the noises of the city gradually return to their places.