Tonight, I dream again.

Dreaming is essential, especially now. In a world of turmoil, from political chaos to constant climate disasters, it’s easy to feel disillusioned. But as a photographer, dreaming is my survival. It’s not about escaping reality; it’s about finding beauty within it. My camera helps me process and make sense of the chaos. Through the lens, I reimagine the world, showing that even in the mess, there is still light, poetry, and moments worth capturing. Dreaming allows me to believe in something beyond the current state and create images that reflect not just what is, but what could be.

Brisbane is one of my favourite Australian cities—not just for its energy, but for how it shakes me awake. Spending most of my time in regional areas, the city pushes me out of my comfort zone, urging me to create differently. Before I arrived, I had lost my connection to my camera. Life had taken over, and my images felt empty, uninspired, stagnant. Brisbane reignited that spark, reminding me why I pick up the camera: not just to document, but to dream.

Visiting galleries, I felt a flicker of creative fire. I let go of perfection and embraced the messiness of movement, following my instinct as the city guided my images, urging me to walk its streets at night.

Later that evening, I head out, camera in hand. It’s always a slow start when I’ve been away from photography for a while. Each press of the shutter feels like a little bit of reconnection. But I don’t have the luxury of time to ease into it. I have 24 hours, the clock ticking over me. The pressure lingers, quiet but heavy, like a weight I can’t shake. I walk the streets, camera to my eye, making mistake after mistake. Each shot feels wrong, offbeat, until, suddenly, something clicks. It’s in those mistakes, those missteps that I find a new path, a new way to see. I hear a whisper in my head: Slow down your shutter speed. Without questioning it, I do.

I surrender to this rhythm. Focused or sharp images are no longer on my mind; instead, I let my body light paint the urban landscape. The streets breathe with movement—figures passing, their stories melting into luminous trails. The glow of colour bleeds into the night like ink on water, and in this ever-shifting canvas of darkness and light, I find my story.

After wandering the streets for a couple of hours, I head back to the hotel. Jess is leaning against the lift wall, her head resting against the lift wall, like a wilted flower too tired to lift its petals. The lights shimmer in the reflection, bending and warping over her, like the last embers of a fading fire, flickering softly against the cold metal of the lift. In this moment, I realise my creative spark has returned. The beautiful rhythm rediscovered, a state of mind rekindled. The shift in scenery coming to the city has worked its quiet magic by peeling away the mundane and revealing wonder. I know it’s real when I feel this weightless and luminous sensation in my chest.

Tonight, I dream again.