all that its about.

The night breeze blows gently through my clothes as I gaze out and over the balcony at the world of activity before me. I close my eyes and draw in a deep breath, and immediately the smells of a million adventures overwhelm my senses. From the familiar and benign scent of coffee to fresh, warm bread pulled carefully from a fiery brick oven, I want to hold it in forever.

The sounds of the paradoxically quiet and chaotic universe extending as far as I can see join together to create a whole new symphony. Here, above the panic and rush, the selfish honk of a cab, the heavy panting of a large truck, and the roar of the sports car all chime into the glorious song of the city. The wind whistles through the streets, and everywhere, from every corner, the chatter of people meets me.

As I look into the horizon, the blue clouds gently caress the even bluer sky, and as the sky touches the city, it bursts into flames, casting an all-engulfing flame of deep orange and pink across the lateral. The twinkling lights of thousands of buildings and streetlights, of hundreds of thousands of vehicles all put their hand to the plow to create glowing rivers of light that wind through the city as it wishes.

I could sit on this balcony forever.

I guess that I'm the kind of guy who sees absolute awesomeness in the world around me. I appreciate everything, almost to an uncannily large extent. People just don't seem to recognize the divine qualities of everything around them.

I think I could get really into photography.

Now that I think about it, shouldn't photography be all about capturing the perfect essence of every image, every moment, every second and breath of life? Shouldn't it be about seeing the world in a more amazing, more dazzling, more beautiful way with every click of the shutter?

What better way is there to make people see the world through my eyes than to throw it in their face and yell "LOOK. LOOK HOW BEAUTIFUL EVERYTHING IS?"

How can photographers take their job seriously and not be excited about every little thing that they see? How does the smallest twinkle, the most delicate blur, the perfect imperfection of the subjects they are shooting not make them tremendously giddy? How can they not be obsessed with how the tiniest detail lends itself to a perfect grand design, even on a small scale?

The world I see is so vivid, so vibrant, so filled with color. It's living and moving and jumping and sparkling and screaming, "God made me and I am incredibly made!"

This is my Father's world,
and to my listening ears
all nature sings, and round me rings
the music of the spheres.
This is my Father's world:
I rest me in the thought
of rocks and trees, of skies and seas;
his hand the wonders wrought.

This is my Father's world,
the birds their carols raise,
the morning light, the lily white,
declare their maker's praise.
This is my Father's world:
he shines in all that's fair;
in the rustling grass I hear him pass;
he speaks to me everywhere.

This is my Father's world.
O let me ne'er forget
that though the wrong seems oft so strong,
God is the ruler yet.
This is my Father's world:
why should my heart be sad?
The Lord is King; let the heavens ring!
God reigns; let the earth be glad!